Dear Dairy,

One of the main reasons I started blogging again was that I thought my experiences could help anyone else who is grieving. Well, that didn't work out. I think I depressed people more than anything else. For once, the genius switch was turned off.

I went through Gwen's wallet today, because I have to, along with the rest of her stuff.

As I went through her wallet, a movie played out in my head. I see it almost every day, usually late at night. In the movie, I'm standing at the gate of a long white fence. Gwen has passed through the gate and walks down a dirt trail that leads down into a valley. Halfway down, she turns and waves at me, a big smile on her face. I don't smile back. I am filled with fear, of the loneliness will I have to endure and all our plans that will never come to be.

Gwen walks on until the path curves to the left and she's out of sight. I want to call for her to come back but my voice won't work. I pull and kick at the gate but it won't budge. Darkness comes, but I stand at the gate hoping Gwen will walk back up the path and through the gate. I stand there a long time, waiting.

If I could only get through the gate. Then I could find where Gwen went and we could be together again. I could give her a hug, because I didn't do that enough when she was here. I could look into her brown eyes and see the love there.

I know she's gone forever. I have to keep telling myself that. I have her wallet, a closet full of her clothes, and lord knows how much paperwork she left behind. I have everything but Gwen.

And with that, I think I'm done blogging.

Dear Dairy,

My heart goes out to the people in Colorado. I worked in TV news and I still have that news gene in my blood, so I've been glued to my set. I wish somebody could figure out why people go to so much trouble to kill random people. I can't say anything new because it's all been said. But always, the big question is WHY?

I feel the need to change things. I have thought about dying my hair red, an impulse that I've had before over the years. I have bought some new clothes that are somewhat different than what I usually wear. Lots of superficial changes.

The big decision is that if we can wrench my inheritance away from the crooks, I'm going to build the house Gwen and I designed. We took an existing set of Mediterranean plans and modified them to our needs. (My youngest now insists that I put in a secret room, which I might actually do.) I did put in a small saltwater pool that I think will help me with the fibromyalgia.

It's a big house for one person, but I may have one of my spawn living with me and going to college nearby. I hope someday I can find someone special who will share the house with me. I'm in no hurry, and I know I can't replace Gwen, who will always be a part of me. But I don't think she'd want me being lonely all the time. I hope the Fates will give me a break in the future and let me find some security and happiness. That's assuming there are Fates. If they exist I'm giving them a one-finger salute.

Building a house is stressful but it will keep me busy (but not too busy to write, Carwash!). I've been buying things for this house, little decorative things for the most part. There is a huge photograph of the Chicago skyline and a painting of a geisha (they fascinate me) looking through a Viewmaster. I had to explain Viewmasters to my kids. Their reaction: "No video games? Wow, did you ever have fun?"

Anyway, as the days go by I think more and more about the house and I think it's become a symbol of a new life for me. Or I'm being a complete idiot.

In other news, I pitched a PB idea to my agent and she seemed enthused. It was originally an email post but I started thinking, this is fun story. With some work it could be a real book. I'm not mentally ready right now for the complex process of editing, but that will come, sooner rather than later.

Last, and in no way least, I want to thank everyone for caring. I had no idea I had so many friends who cared so much. I wish they were nearby but you can't have everything. I met Gwen on the Internet, by the way, but I never dreamed we would become partners. That was nearly 14 years ago.

Dear Dairy,

Note: I thought I posted this. Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. Only Randolph Mantooth knows.
Other note: SAO, I cannot write you if you don't provide a valid email address.

So here's probably the same blog entry again. Blame it on the Buddhists--nobody ever blames them for anything. It's about time.

Okay, this was one of those relapse days they told me would happen. Believe me, I'm ready to get back to the funny. Making people laugh brings me joy. I think it's probably my best talent. But the day wore me down and I got a letter from Gwen's mom, which she wanted posted--you can see it below. 

Went to the grief group at the hospital. Four women and a "bereavement counselor." I think I gave as much good advice as I got. Anyway, the 90 minutes went by fast. I'll probably try it again next month.

Finally picked up Gwen today. Gwen's mother called yesterday howling that Gwen hadn't been cremated yet but I knew better. Paid my $5300.00, if you're curious about what these things cost, and now she's sitting in the family room. I will probably cry later but right now I'm comfortably numb, as that Archies song goes. Or was that a Cowsill's song. Beats me.

The bad thing is that I saved my last check for the funeral home. I ordered more, but they haven't shown up yet. Until then, I ain't paying no bills, as they say around here. I heard enough of that when I owned a couple of apartment buildings. I must have had every deadbeat in the world.

David's MacBook Pro laptop fan is making horrible noises, so I hope someone knows a fix for it. I don't do hardware so I hope it's not something awful.

Still no rain and a high of 99 degrees today. I haven't mowed in well over a month. This is getting really bad, the worst since 1956 according to the news. The county where I keep my farm has been declared a disaster area. Maybe I'll get a few bucks from the government but I'm not holding my breath.

Listening to Macca's new CD,, Kisses from the Bottom. It's soothing but the love songs are starting to hurt. I'm going to gut this out. I love Macca and the old standards he does on this CD are great.

I promised I would post this next letter. It is from Gwen's mother, who does not have a computer. She wrote it six days after Gwen's death:

Dear Gwen,

I was so happy to hear I was going to have a baby--your father and I went to dinner to celebrate. When you were born the nurse put a yellow ribbon in your thick black hair.

You went to school and Sunday school. I remember our minister at the Congregational church saying you would make a good minister someday. Life went on and you went into the Air Force. You married and gave me a wonderful grandson.

I hope you found happiness in your life. When you called me you always seemed to be so happy with Melissa and her children. I hope you will find some peace now that you have left us. I'm sorry you were so ill--I wish you would have called me.

I will miss your phone calls and all the funny and lovely cards you sent me. I still have them all of them. I told Melissa about the Easter card, the one shaped like a big egg and when you opened it a chicken on a spring popped out. You and I laughed about this one many times.

I love you and I will miss you--my heart is aching and I have cried every day since you left us. I wish I could have kissed and hugged you before you left us.

Love,
Mother

Dear Dairy,

The Celebration of Gwen went well. Almost everyone on our end of the street came, plus some other friends. I did most of the talking, telling about how we met, what Gwen liked to do, and hopefully a few funny stories. One of neighbors gave me a single red rose. I told the man next door that I called him Mr. Bushida and I'd blown up his house in my writing at least half a dozen times. Thankfully, he thought that was hilarious.

I still have the attention span of a gnat. Got up this morning, made a pot of coffee, and when I came back ten minutes later, I discovered I had made a nice pot of hot water. And after congratulating myself on getting up and making it to Champaign to my doctor appointments with time to spare, they told me I'd missed the first appointment by half an hour.

While I waited to make new appointments, the old man standing behind me in line made a angry face at me. "You think this line is long?" he muttered. "Wait until Obamacare gets here." I shook my head and told him I wasn't getting in any political arguments with strange men in baseball caps. That hasn't stopped my son and for blaming everything on Obamacare, like we ran out of toilet paper and I spilled a bamboo vase. Our pizza could have been warmer at dinner, so we blamed that on Obamacare too. I'll bet that's why my knees hurt so bad. Obamacare!

Forgot to eat again today. The neighbors wanted to organize a "Make sure Melissa eats campaign." I'm not too torn up about losing some weight so I'm not worried. Obamacare!

The UPS man brought a lovely teddy bear from my Net Mom, the woman who watches over me. And it was from FAO Schwartz. Classy.

Today was a wash for getting things done but I do need to do laundry, cleaning, and some purging. There's no big hurry with the purging, I know, but it seems like I'm moving forward a tiny bit.

Thursday is the Grief Group meeting. If it's a room full of people sobbing, I'm outta there. I don't see that being helpful.

I do find myself wondering about souls. Do they exist? Do our loved ones watch over us? That would be cool but I don't want my parents watching me take a dump or do some other things I won't mention. Maybe it's souls that make humans different than African TzeTze flies and Rush Limbaugh.

I'm thinking about the new house a lot. My youngest spawn is now demanding a secret room. Come to think of it, that would be pretty cool. But now he wants a secret tunnel to the next lot. I don't think so.

Dear Dairy,

Gwen's obit appeared in Tuesday's paper. They put a flag under her picture because she was a veteran. And they said "she served her country with distinction," which I really liked.

Wednesday is the Gwen Celebration for the neighborhood. I was happy to find two of my father's caregivers whom we got to know well. In fact, one of them told me it was a recommendation from Gwen that got her a new and better job after my father passed. The other caregiver is rather timid and was bulled constantly by my father's nurse. The nurse was an ass. A major ass. She had a police record and attacked a cop. But:

1. When the nurse bullied the woman in my presence, I told her very seriously that I would rip her rotten head off if it happened again. Geez, did she go pale in a hurry.

2. The nurse kept a notebook full of everything that went on in the house. My sons got a hold of it, drew a picture, and wrote underneath, "We just drew a picture of a pirate in your f@cking notebook and there's not a thing you can do about it."

3. When the nurse showed up (in a pink tracksuit) at my father's house while it was still burning, a sheriff's deputy asked me what I want to do. I said, "Throw her out of the neighborhood." Two deputies escorted her to her car and told her to stay at least five miles from my father's house. The next day, she posted a weird announcement in the newspaper about how much she missed my father. Get over it lady! My father couldn't stand you! He wanted a wild dingo to eat you!

I had no idea I had such clout! I wish Gwen had been there but she was helping some firefighters push my father's car out of the garage. It was already covered with wet plaster and looked like the world's biggest bird has taken a dump on it. When I did tell Gwen, she about busted a rib from laughing.

We've been cleaning out the refrigerator. So far, we have discovered 654 new life forms, many of which are mean and have teeth. My son had to Taser one of them to get it inside the garbage disposal.

I don't know where I am with grieving right now. I think the meds have built a wall where the horrible images of that night still pop up, but they don't hit me as hard. I can't take meds the rest of my life, so I'm hoping to learn how to grieve on my own. We'll see what Thursday night with what I call the Grief Group at the hospital. I'm worried it will be a room full of sobbing people. That I don't need.

Can't either of my sons interested in the Straight No Chaser concert at the Chicago Theater in December. The tickets are bought, so maybe I can find somebody up there who wants to go. I'm pretty sure I know a few writers up there. (I'm mentioning this because the tickets fell off my desk today. There ain't no way it's December, not around here.)

Dear Dairy,

Weird thing. I couldn't shake the idea that I wouldn't be around for Gwen's birthday in late October. Lots of morbid thoughts about my demise. So I started ordering birthday presents so she would have presents to unwrap. Now I have all these unopened boxes sitting in my den. One is really cool: a Starbucks white-gold travel mug with a ceramic interior. I finally opened it today and it's gorgeous.

Also opened a fake antique sign that reads "Books" in vertical letters with a old-fashioned hand pointing to the right. It's heavy and substantial and has a glass front, which I didn't expect.

I got her a Dalek key ring that lights up and threatens to exterminate you. I have no idea where it went. Maybe it exterminated itself. Oh, and an Abby bobblehead from NCIS. Gwen watched that damned show every day on one channel or another. Why don't they just make an NCIS channel and be done with it.

Looking at Gwen's stuff in the bathroom. I'm not at the point of throwing it out yet, or maybe I'll just use it. But the important thing is that even though Gwen owned my heart and soul (and still does), she never really owned the material things. She is gone but her stuff remains. Now it's mine, and when I go, my stuff will go to my children. We're really just renting, when you get down to it. Sometimes, if you have good stuff, the person who sums your life is an auctioneer.

I wish I could control my emotions better. I started crying at the grocery store when I saw something Gwen liked. People tell me it's normal, but that doesn't help, plus women bawling in stores tends to frighten other shoppers--well, more than I usually frighten them.

I'm having a lot of trouble concentrating, except for one thing: early this morning (2:50am),  it was exactly one week since I lost my Gwen, at least according to the coroner. She died sometime before that. She kept making gurgling noises at first and I took that I took to be a good sign. I remember yelling at the 911 lady about the gurgling. I've since been told those were death rattles, and I don't want to know what those are or why they happen.

It would be romantic if she had died in my arms. But I couldn't get her up so she died with me on top of her nude body, pounding on her and yelling for her to wake up. A policeman dragged me off of her and took me to another room while the paramedics did their thing.

This is weird in a way, I'm angry that my world has stopped but the rest of the world goes on. Hearts beat, hearts stop beating, people laugh and cry, the birds sing their song, men drive semis full of meat down the Interstate, the yard turns more yellow from the drought, now the worst in 56 years.

So, this week seems like forever. Will the hurt ever end? It's not for lack of trying. Last night I stood on the front porch, looked up at the cloudless sky, and told Gwen how angry I was that she left me like this. Just when things started to turn in our favor, she went away to wherever people go. We worked so hard to beat the crooks--it was time to drink the wine, so to speak.

Found out today from someone who secretly overheard a conversation between the crooked lawyer and the crooked accountant I've been fighting since 2008:
Lawyer to accountant: "You better not do this. Melissa will find out and destroy you."

You bet your ass I will. It's already started. We're bringing down the Illinois Attorney General's office on your greedy *#&(*&#@s.

Come to think of it, the same lawyer told my ex: "Watch out for Melissa. She's really intelligent."


Yeah, intelligent people are dangerous. Especially if you're a crook who stole from me.

Dear Dairy,

First things first. Gwen and I had two rescued dogs: Scooter, a huge Stafforshire bull terrier; and Thor, an Australian terrier. It would make them happy if people honored Gwen by sending something to the Cumberland County Pet Connection Charity, P.O. Box 1, Toledo, IL 62468. We know one of the people who run the charity and they are always strapped for money. It's tax deductible, so do it. Or let me know when you first joined Al Queda.

Bought a book from Amazon called "How To Go On Living When Someone You Love Dies." And a Micky Dolenz CD. And two Ruff Hewn tops at Carsons. The retail therapy didn't really help. At least the tops fit.

I'm purging, I guess. Washed some towels today and threw out all Gwen's undies I found in the laundry. There's not much else to do with them. I donated her glasses to the Lion's Club. They refurbish them and give them to people who can't afford them.

The fridge needs to be cleaned out. You don't want to know what the head of lettuce I found looked like. Thankfully, the garbage disposal is still working, but it sounds weird. The sink was hideous until I found some Barkeeper's Friend at the store. The kitchen was Gwen's domain. I had no idea things had gotten so bad.

Rummaged around her desk and found some unpaid medical bills. Now that she's gone, I will lose my insurance, since I piggybacked on hers. That's scary. Maybe AARP has something.

I have to pick up Gwen today, I think. I know I have to give the funeral home a bunch of money. Her obit didn't show up in the paper today. I thought it would, but maybe the funeral home wants the money first. Makes them sound nasty but it is a business. The man who owns it was a class behind me in high school.

Wednesday afternoon the neighbors who knew Gwen and having a quiet celebration. They are shocked at what happened. I have to tell the same story over and over--today it was the lady at the alterations shop who Gwen befriended. She just kept saying, "Your father just died and now Gwen is gone? No no no no."

Let's see...has anything good happened? I think this is making my youngest grow up, since he's almost my parent at the moment.

Oh! I talked to the family geneologist who has become something of an expert on DNA. Part of our family came from the O'Neill clan in Ireland. As it turns out, the two guys--the white cop and the black professor who had beers with president Obama--turns out that the professor carries the same DNA bits as me. So he's a relative of sorts since we came from the same clan and DNA pool. And I guess he would be not an African-American but an Irish-American. So of course he would drink beers with the president! I was drinking one (Blue Moon) when I found out (really). Ha ha! Stereotypes!

Dear Dairy,

I think the writer's retreat held by my agent starts today. I'm a little fuzzy on things like that right now. Matter of fact, it took ten minutes to figure out it was Sunday. And like always, ten seconds after my eyes opened, the flood of reality hit. Gwen is gone.

Last night I slept the most I have since...probably Wednesday night. I have only a few memories of Tuesday in the early morning when Gwen left me. I don't remember calling my son in hysterics, I don't remember him being here when they took Gwen away, or him driving me to the hospital. I don't remember talking to the coroner or any doctors. I do remember being shown to a room where Gwen was on a table. They must have cleaned up her face a lot since she fell. Her head was crooked, so I straightened it out and kissed her one last time. I squeezed her cold hand and told her I loved her.

God, people are going to hate me for saying all this stuff.

Mornings are the worst. I took my anti-anxiety meds but nothing yet. Still fear, loneliness, and the battle to make myself realize she isn't coming back. I'm crying now, writing about it, but it seems to be important to write. Yesterday a friend said I should write a book about this. I went nuclear on her because people always say that about tragedy and I think it's stupid. Right now, I want to be numb. I don't want to relive it all through ten revisions of a manuscript.

Tomorrow to the bank to raid my CD for the money to pay for Gwen's urn and cremation and whatnot. It's expensive but money is water right now. Maybe I'll try to get the neighbors together to speak about how they felt about her. Then the $900 urn will go in a closet so I don't see it all the time. We never made any mutual plans so I don't know what else to do.

She has a memorial page at http://www.mitchell-jerdan.com/   You can make comments, light a virtual candle, read the abbreviated obituary I had to write for reasons I can't share, at least not now.

Thursday the grief support group meets at the hospital. I will go but I don't know that it will help. What can they do about my horrible loneliness, my fears for the future?

Gwen and I have been living under a mountain of stress since 2008, when my father told he was being robbed and he wanted me to help him get it back. Shortly after, we started hearing I was disinherited. When he died, that turned out to be a lie. But a crooked accountant put two codicils in the will that basically take my inheritance and my sons'. Gwen dealt mostly with my attorneys to protect me from further harm and worry. And just when it seemed we were on the verge of final victory, Gwen left me all alone. We had just planned a new house in a new town, Gwen picked out a lot she wanted, and we hoped to build a new life, hopefully without so much stress.

Gwen had a minister friend who I think is going to school near my writer buddies' retreat. I told him I had killed Gwen by letting her get involved. But he said, very wisely, that Gwen chose to share my life, that she chose to share my burden, and she chose to take the lead in the legal matters. And that's true. Gwen's mother told me how happy she was to do things for me and try to keep me from harm.

Now my protector is gone. Sometimes I want to follow her, wherever she went, and be with her again.

Dear Dairy,

I haven't posted here since forever. I thought I'd try to work out my horrible grief by writing it down. It will probably come off whiny and selfish, not that I mean it that way.

My partner of 12 years, Gwendolyn McIntyre, died last Tuesday at 2:50am. The autopsy showed that not only had she had a major heart attack at age 29, she had suffered several smaller ones before the massive attack that took her from me. If she had gotten heart surgery and taken medication she likely would have lived many more years. I'm angry at her for not doing that.

It's Saturday morning for me. Gwen and I were night owls and I am up way too early. I have medication to slow down my brain and allow me to rest but I haven't anywhere near eight hours of sleep since Monday.

I ate a couple of chicken planks at Long John Silver's yesterday. It's the only food I've had since Gwen passed. I'm told this is normal but it worries my son for some reason.

I've talked to Gwen's mother, LaVerne, every day. Never had much contact with her before but when I called from the funeral home she told me she loved me. Didn't see that one coming. But now the urn is picked and the cremation will go forward. The whole thing will cost me about $5200. I had no idea how much these things cost, so I will have to raid my emergency fund again. Unfortunately, Gwen's mother was financially unable to help and so it fell to me.

When I think about what hurts so much, I might be a selfish ass. Yes, I miss Gwen dearly. I still ask my son if she's gone or I just think she is. At the same time, I worry about the future. I'm terrified of being alone. Gwen and I didn't socialize here in town--it was almost all on the Net. In fact, that's how we met. So, I miss Gwen but I want to have someone to love--real, tangible love--in the future. But I'm a klutz and shy so I can't see meeting anyone down the road.

I'm aware I will never replace Gwen. As so many people have said, we were like two puzzle pieces that fit together. Losing her scares me so much. She took care of me, she loved me, we did so many things together. Right now we should be at my writer's retreat. I am afraid to fly and afraid sometimes of crowds, so Gwen got the plane tickets and hotel room. She was looking forward to meeting my fellow writers and seeing new places.

Okay, that's enough self-pity for today.

In Which Dr. Missy Likes Some Things Better Than Others

I like a good sentence. Who doesn't? Well, probably creepy people who lurk in cemeteries and eat anchovies for fun. What was I saying? Oh, I like a good sentence, and here's one from a book called "The Brixton Brothers: The Case of the Case of Mistaken Identity," by Mac Barnett. Yes, that's the real title--I didn't hiccup or anything.

I enjoyed this book a lot, especially when I learned that the Brixton Brothers were only one person. But let's get to that sentence. "The inside of the Red Herring was shabby and dim and smell like beards."

There are other quite good sentences in the book, but I think this is the best. Even better, the book is free of any dead mother nonsense. Hah! Take that, you cliche users!

In which Dr. Missy sucks up to her agent for no apparent reason

My new toy

Okay, so I'm a gadget freak. I did not sleep in front of a Best Buy in order to be one of the first to get an iPad, but I did check the inventories of the local stores until I found one that had the iPad in stock. Then we rushed off like a hurricane or blizzard or typhoon or some other weather condition and I got one.

So far, I think it's terrific. Playing Bejeweled on it is awesome. Also, the iPad did an admirable job standing in for my iMac and Powerbook when both came down with maladies. In fact, I took it with me to the....

Writer's retreat

Every year my agent has a retreat and this year was my first time. I was very nervous because I figured everyone knew everyone else from previous retreats and I would be like the new kid in school and have to stand in corner by myself. In fact, they couldn't have been nicer and more supportive. I read a couple of pages from my WIP and they were all good enough to laugh where I had hoped people would laugh. At least I didn't hear any crickets chirping.

Still, when I think about the kind of stuff I like to write, I feel overwhelmed by the stuff other people are doing, stories with all kinds of deep emotional conflict and multiple subplots. I'm writing about a boy who gains super powers and flies around and gets lost.

At the retreat, I listened to excerpts from about 25 other writers and I knew my turn was coming. I started thinking, "Dang, maybe I can sneak back to my room without anyone noticing. Or maybe I could shout, "Help, I have horrible diarrhea!" and make a run for it. I'm sure no one would have tried to stop me.

We showed up the day before the retreat officially began and I wore a t-shirt from the Steve Dahl radio show that proclaimed in large letters: "Reading is for Losers." Obviously, I don't share this view but I wanted to see what kind of reaction it would get. Unfortunately, the one person at the retreat who knew me by sight spotted me, and then, horror of horrors, my agent showed up. I'm sure she was thrilled with the shirt. The scary thing is that it got a lot of attention when we went shopping, but only from young women.

My agent's birthday

Nearly every year I write a short story about my agent's birthday. They always involve monsters, vampires, ogres, etc. and I always visualize my agent as being 12 years old. I have no explanation for any of this. It just is. This year's story is no exception, except that I decided to limit myself to 750 words like in a typical picture book, except I might be the world's worst picture book writer.

Thing is, picture books require such tight writing and I tend to be a little sloppy. I am reminded of the quote by the great Mark Twain, who said, "And madam, if I were your husband, I'd drink it!"

No wait, that was Winston Churchill. Mark Twain once wrote a friend and said, "I'm sorry this is so long. I didn't have time to make it shorter." Or words to that effect. I'm not a Bartlett's, you know.

So, without any further ado, here is my homage to my agent's birthday.

Erin slept with a grin on her face. She dreamed of her birthday and the fun she would have when she woke up.

The quiet of her room was broken by a scratching sound at the door. “Hello?” came a muffled voice from outside.

“Who’s there?” Erin asked groggily.

The door creaked open. A hairy foot appeared, followed by an equally hairy body two feet tall. The thing wore a small purple hat. Two dark eyes glittered from under the fur.

The thing gave Erin a small wave. “Hi. I’m Larry, your birthday monster.”

"My what?" Erin mumbled.

“Birthday monster. I’m here to terrify you on your birthday.” Larry raised his arms and let out a growl. It sounded more like a kitten mewing. "Are you scared yet?"

“There’s no such thing as a birthday monster,” Erin said. She nestled under the covers and closed her eyes.

A few minutes later, she felt someone wiggle her big toe.

“Excuse me. Hello?”

Erin opened one eye to see Larry standing next to her bed.

“Wake up. I have to frighten you now." Larry bared his small teeth and crossed his eyes.

Erin sighed and sat up in bed. “I don’t know if you’re real or not, but why do you have to frighten me?”

"You're my homework," Larry said. "I'm supposed to ruin your birthday. I'm going to…." He stopped to scratch his head. "I can't remember. But it's really scary stuff.”

Erin frowned. "Birthdays aren't scary. They're about cakes and presents and parties and silly hats and—”

“That’s it!” Larry cried. “I’m supposed to frighten the birthday cake, scream at the presents, eat the silly hats and then…no, that’s not it.”

He kicked the bedpost in frustration. “Ow!” he cried, hopping in circles on one hairy foot.

“Serves you right,” Erin said. “Scaring people on their birthday is dumb.”

The monster stopped hopping. “You really think so?”

“How would you like it if I showed up on your birthday and frightened you?”

Larry shook his head. “I wouldn’t like that. But if I don’t frighten you and ruin your birthday, I’ll get yelled at by my teacher. Steve is the best birthday monster ever. One year he ruined fifty birthdays in one day.”

“Sounds rotten to me,” Erin said.

The monster began to pace next to the bed, deep in thought. “Okay. Maybe I should frighten the birthday cake, eat the presents, and…oh boy, my teacher is going to be mad if I don't figure this out.”

Larry began to sniffle. A tear trickled down his cheek.

“Okay, don’t get all gooey about it,” Erin said. “I have an idea.”

Later that day, all of Erin’s friends came to her birthday party. They brought presents, they wore silly hats, and they ate birthday cake. But mostly, they looked at the hairy thing sitting next to Erin at the head of the table. It wore the silliest hat of all, and held a piece of birthday cake in each paw.

“That’s the ugliest doll I’ve ever seen,” said Ruth, Erin’s best friend. “How do you get it to eat cake like that?”

Erin watched as Larry finished another piece of cake, candle and all. His furry face was covered with crumbs and icing.

“I don’t know how it works,” she said, giving Larry a wink. “Maybe it has a computer in it.”

Ruth shrugged. “It’s ugly and it just ate a birthday hat. What do we do now?”

“We’re going to play a game,” Erin said. “We’re going to run outside and scream as loud as we can. And the loudest screamer gets a big prize.”

And that’s what they did.

They screamed so loud that people blocks away opened their doors to see what was going on. Dogs began to howl. Huge flocks of birds flew from the trees. Somebody called the police.

It was the loudest scream anyone had ever heard.

The next day, in a classroom far, far away, a large monster patted Larry on the head.

“Good work,” Steve said. “We could hear the screams all the way down here. You are the scariest monster in the school.”

“Aw, it was nothing,” Larry said. He burped and a birthday hat flew out of his mouth. “People are weird. Those things taste awful.”

Email of the day

Dear Dr. Missy,

I am a newbie children's author and I'm ready to buy a computer. The trouble is, I don't know which kind to buy. I've heard that PCs are cheap but they all have trouble with viruses and whatnot. Macs cost more but don't have the virus problem. However, a friend told me that Macs are prone to being haunted. What should I do?

Dazed and Bewildered

Dear D and B,

It should be obvious from what I wrote above that I am a Mac Person and proud of it. At least with a Mac I don't have to worry about my computer bursting into flames or being infected with a new virus every five minutes.

Unfortunately, the reports of "haunted" Macs are true. Apple has acknowledged the problem, which is due to certain logic boards mutating into irrational boards that somehow summon the spirits of creatures from another dimension that take up residence in Macs.

Hey, what can I say? It happens.

My agent was the victim of a Technohaunting, and it changed the programming on her computer so that every third word she wrote was replaced with "poop." As a result, I received emails that read:

Dear Melissa,

Poop was good poop to hear poop from you poop. About your poop: I sent poop to Ed poop at Random poop and he poop as soon poop he can. Poop.

Well, you get the idea. She had a Buddhist guy come in and do some kind of exorcism thingie and now "poop" only shows up every fiftieth word or so. That's not so bad and she doesn't have to worry about flames and poisonous fumes shooting out of her keyboard as is the case with certain other brands. I think you know what I mean.

Dr. Missy

Fun's over, time to do the blog

I'm back!

I haven't really gone anywhere but real life gets in the way of blogging. Well, I did go to Chicago and look for ghosts with children's author Adam Selzer, though we didn't find any. Then we went back to Chicago again to see if we could find the best cheeseburger in the city. Much more research remains before a winner can be crowned.

My youngest son got a taste of city life while we sat in a park late one evening. A man who had perhaps drank a little too much plopped next to him and introduced himself as Pete. Within five minutes they were involved in a lively argument about whether Inspector Gadget said "Go go gadget hat!" or "Go go gadget copter!" when he needed to fly. I'm not sure this vitally important issue was ever decided. I'm not sure how the subject even came up. I'm not sure I want to know.

I love using Chicago as the locale of my stories, so I try to learn as much about the city as I can whenever we head up north. Last time, I spent an hour walking from one end of the Navy Pier to the other with a video camera glued to my eye. I'd written a specific scene that takes place there and I wanted to make sure I had it right. One day we spent over an hour near Michigan Avenue looking for a suitable alley for another story. These activities, of course, thrill my family to no end. I hear a lot of "Can we go now?" and "All right, already!"

Civilians. They'll never understand the heart of the true artist.


Dead Mother Report

I just finished reading Big Nate: In a Class by Himself by Lincoln Peirce. At first glance you might say to yourself, "Aha! This is just a crummy ripoff of Jeff Kinney's Wimpy Kid books! But there is a red banner running across the top of the front cover with Kinney quoted as saying "Big Nate is funny, big time."

Big Nate appears in over 200 U.S. newspapers. So there.

Big Nate is what I call a hybrid book, one with text and pictures mixed together, like the Wimpy Kid books or Ruth McNally's Barshaw's Ellie McDoodle series. I'm sure the publishing industry has come up with its own nifty term for these books but I haven't been paying attention if

they have.

Anyway, Big Nate is a quick and enjoyable read. I had the plot figured out early on but that didn't take away from my enjoyment of the characters and Nate's unending battle to stop being sent to detention. The artwork, while similar to Kinney's, is appealing, and the story is fun. This book should be very appealing to MG readers, especially boys.

What you want to know, of course, is whether or not there is a dead mother in this book. The answer is: I don't know. Nate has a somewhat stereotypical doofus dad and annoying older sister, but his mother is nowhere to be found. Is she dead? A zombie? A vampire? Did she run off with the milkman? Was she hit by a shrink ray and is trying to climb up a table leg in order to get the family's attention? The author gives us no clues.

Dead Mother Rating: Who the heck knows?

News of the weird:

From Illinois Homepage: An argument between a father and his adult son over the best way to change diapers sent one man to the hospital.

Gregory Bishop was fighting with his son about how he was changing his baby's diaper. Police say that the argument got physical and Bishop tried to get a knife to defend himself. In the process of doing that, he accidentally cut himself and had to be treated at a hospital in Springfield.

The son took off before police arrived to the scene. They say the baby was unharmed because its mother took the child from the bedroom when she heard the fight break out.


Email of the day:

Dear Dr. Missy,

Are all little boys weird or is it just mine? If I'm going to write books that will be appeal to them, I need to know what they are like.

Concerned

Dear Concerned,

My little boys have grown up to be ginormous teenagers. One of them has a beard that makes him look fairly Amish. But here's a true story from when my youngest was a cute little bugger without any beard, Amish or otherwise:

We're at Bed, Bath & Beyond and I notice these rubber squishy balls near the checkout. They're about the size of a racquetball and are supposed to be used for relieving tension or as therapy to combat carpal tunnel. Since my youngest spawn is the fidgety type, I grabbed one for him to fidget with in the car. And since my wrist had been a little achy, I grabbed another one for me.

As it is with all things, my son insisted the balls be given names. He decided his would be Steve. I couldn't think of an appropriate name for a ball, so I snagged the first idea that flitted through my head and christened mine Hey Albert, which came from my failed attempt the night before to recall the name of the cartoon series, Hey Arnold.

Later that day, I walked into my bedroom to find my son sprawled on the bed on his stomach, staring at the two balls, which sat an inch part, unmoving.

"What's up?" I asked cleverly.

He gave me one of those "Duh!" looks. "Can't you see? Steve and Hey Albert are fighting."

Sure, why not? I left him there, a silent spectator to an epic battle between two enraged and motionless squishy balls. I never asked who won but I hope it was Hey Albert. There is such a thing as loyalty, after all.

So yeah, my son was fairly weird, but now he has actual prestigious universities vying for his attention despite the beard. So don't give up hope. I've got plenty more stories from where this one came from.

Sincerely,

Dr. Missy

News bulletin! Liar controversy resolved!

Liar

As everyone in the children's publishing knows by now, a controversy erupted over the cover of Justine Larbalestier’s novel, LIAR, published by Bloomsbury. The original cover, which featured a Caucasian girl with straight hair, did not match the author's description of the main character, an African-American girl with "nappy" hair. Larbalestier, which is a very hard name to spell, made it known that she was upset over the cover but was told the cover could not be changed.

This led to a storm of protest from people on the Interweb who like to protest things, although you can hardly blame them in this case. A similar outcry occurred in 1969 when a Hardy Boys book (The Secret Under the Sink) was released with a cover inexplicably showing Joe Hardy dressed as a Rastafarian and Aunt Gertrude firing a Glock 19 at the family dog.

In the case of LIAR, one proposal that caught fire amongst children's authors suggested that everyone who buys LIAR should return the jacket to Bloomsbury, along with a polite note stating, "You better send me a different cover or else, chumps."

In the end, Bloomsbury recently announced that the book with be re-jacketed in time for its release in October.The odd thing is, the new cover will feature the late Bill Cullen (see right), host of the original The Price Is Right and many other game shows. We could not discover why this decision was reached, although we did receive a whispered late night phone call from a woman who said, "Everybody liked Bill Cullen, okay? Who's going to complain about him?"

Email of the day

Dear Dr. Missy,

I was thinking of going to one of those SCBWI conventions. Have you ever gone to a convention? Is it worth the time and money? What the heck does SCBWI mean, anyway?

Bev (My real name)

Dear Bev,

I went to the last SCBWI convention in New York. Well, I tried to get there but it didn't work out. First I had trouble at the airport because I refuse to travel without my collection of antique tweezers and nail clippers. It was a bad scene and the security guys got jumpy and Maced me. Big deal. These days, all that does is make me sneeze a little. After I got away from them, I thought I'd found my flight but my eyes were a little watery and I didn't read the sign quite right. I ended up flying to York, Pennsylvania.

When I got off the plane a woman pointed at me and started yelling that I was the Sweet Potato Queen of literary fame. Okay, the Sweet Potato Queen is real tall and has big curly hair and I'm real tall and have big curly hair but I'm still not her. Despite my protests, no one would listen, so I was taken to the local high school to give a talk on sweet potatoes to the student body.

Thing is, I hate sweet potatoes. I can't stand to have them near me, so my speech was mostly a lot of yelling about how people who eat sweet potatoes should be thrown out of the country because only communists would eat the stupid things in the first place. That caused a fuss and they tossed me out of the high school. Unfortunately, they still had my suitcase, so I had to fight my way back in to get it because I was not leaving my collection of antique tweezers and nail clippers in York frigging Pennsylvania.

Luckily, I was able to hitch a ride with a trucker taking a load of urinal cakes to New Jersey. Unluckily, he insisted we sing C.W. McCall's "Convoy" all the way there. It's not a bad song, not really, but it's a long way to New Jersey and we must have sang the &*^%$#@! thing a thousand times. Hey, Rubber Duck, you got your ears on?

The trucker let me out somewhere in eastern New Jersey and I caught a cab the rest of the way. I stopped off for a look in the newly-opened Museum of Socks, then hung around the Ed Sullivan Theatre for a while to see if David Letterman might show up. By the time I got to the convention site, all the SCBWI people had left. I wandered the hotel aimlessly until I found a meeting for fans of the old TV show, "Emergency." I chatted with a professional Randolph Mantooth impersonator until he started grabbing at me, then I decided it was time to go home.

Next year I'll try and do things a little differently.

Dr. Missy

P.S. I don't know what SCBWI means. It's probably one of those secret things like the Masons have. It's better not to inquire about that kind of stuff because you don't want to wake up with a goat's head in your bed or whatever it is they do.

That was zen, this is tao

The new me

Yesterday I took my son to the Social Security Administration to get him a new card, seeing as how he lost the first one. As I expected, there was quite a crowd, so we took seats in the back row. A couple of minutes later, a disheveled man came in, looked over the available seats, and decided to sit next to me. They always do. After he settled himself, he took out a container of doughnut holes and began to carefully examine each one. Perhaps he was looking for defects or maybe he was counting them--it wasn't clear.

I tried my best to ignore the guy and his aroma, but I made the mistake of sneaking a peek at him. He caught my eye, smiled a gruesome smile, and said he knew a "a real pretty lady over to Gibson City" who looked just like me.

"He's trying to pick you up," my son whispered, trying not to laugh.

"I've never been to Gibson City," I said.

"Oh," the disheveled guy said. "Well, you sure look like her." He went back to inspecting his doughnut holes.

My son and I, with a long wait ahead of us, decided to use the time by coming with a nickname that would help my writing career, something that would grab the attention of an editor or the reading public. Here are some of the nicks we evaluated:

Missy "Tourist Hater" Neal

Missy "The Inkinator" Neal

Missy "The King of Pop" Neal

Missy "Get Down with Your Own Bad Self" Neal

Missy "Gonzo" Neal

Missy "Melissa" Neal

Melissa "Missy" Neal

Melissa "The Italian Stallion" Neal

Melissa "Read or Die" Neal

Melissa "Dr. J" Neal

Well, you get the idea. Coming up with a good nickname, especially one for use in literary circles, turned out to be quite difficult. In the end, we decided on... (drum roll)

Melissa "The Enforcer" Neal

I need to tell my agent of this new moniker, if she would only answer her phone. I think she will be quite happy, telling editors that she has a new manuscript from... The Enforcer. "Whoa," the editors will say. "A new one from The Enforcer! Break me off a piece of that because I am hungry for some great reading!"

After a long wait, we didn't get a new Social Security Card because my son forgot his school ID. So, we went over to Barnes & Noble, where I stood near the front door and pretended I was having a book signing. "Hey," I said to customers entering the store, "The Enforcer is here. Have pen, will sign."

Most of the customers shied away from me. One woman started to cry. A big, nasty looking guy glared at me and said, "Who do you think you are?" I replied, "The Enforcer." After that, the cops showed up and we had to leave.

Email of the day

Dear Dr. Missy,

I am a children's author but my children (Augie, Robert, Kristal, Gwen, and Petey) refuse to eat cauliflower no matter how I prepare it. They say it looks like brains! Do you know of a way I can get them to eat this most important vegetable?

Bev (My real name is Dotti)

Dear Bev and/or Dotti,

What the heck does this have to do with children's writing? Never mind. As it happens, here is my recipe for cauliflower:

Take one pound of lean ground beef

Three tablespoons butter

One pound sharp cheddar cheese

Six slices of English muffin bread

One pound of cauliflower

A nice bottle of merlot

Shape ground beef (ground sirloin is best) into three patties and cook over medium heat until the meat is slightly pink in the center.

Break cheese into pieces and melt over medium high heat in a double boiler

Toast English muffins in toaster (duh)

Place each ground beef patty on one slice of muffin and cover generously with melted cheddar. Cover with second slice of muffin.

Throw the caulflower out the back door and hope the danged squirrels will eat it because it does look like brains and it tastes horrible.

Return to kitchen and invite two friends over for burgers.

Wash down burgers with merlot.

Put butter back in fridge since you never got around to using it.

Optional: Serve chips next to burgers

Also optional: Put ketchup or mustard or mayonnaise on burgers

There. I hope that helps.

Sincerely,

Dr. Missy

Nothing about cobras this time, I promise

The Squirrel Man

I was cleaning out my computer desktop yesterday and found a file called "Squirrel Man." I had no idea what it was so I opened it and started reading. I read a little of it and decided I must have downloaded it from the Interweb and kept it for some reason. Then I read a little further and saw a couple of personal references. Turns out I wrote the thing, probably one of those late night ideas that wouldn't let go of me until I wrote it down.

Since I don't have anything terrifically witty today. Here's the Squirrel Man.

I passed the old man every day on my way to work. He sat on the same park bench from daybreak to sundown, in rain and snow, heat and cold, he was always there.

He dressed in a gray wool overcoat that had seen better days and an ancient Cubs cap. His face was deeply lined, his hair thinning and gray. His eyes gave no sign of happiness or sorrow. They just stared ahead, looking at something in the far distance.

I called him the squirrel man because he was covered with squirrels. They perched on his shoulders, arms, and legs, even on his scuffed boots. Without seeming to move, a piece of corn or a nut would appear in his hand for a second before one of the faster squirrels grabbed it in both paws and hurriedly nibbled at it.

After a while, I ceased to notice him. He was another park fixture, more like a statue than a man. The seasons changed but he did not.

A few days before Christmas, I hurried through the park on my regular route to work. Fat snowflakes skidded past, borne by a gusty wind. When I reached the park bench, the squirrel man slowly turned his head and looked at me for the first time. I stopped and gave him an awkward wave. His eyes lowered, indicating the vacant seat on the bench. After a moment’s hesitation, I sat next to him, causing a mass exodus of squirrels.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be,” he said in a whispery voice. “They’ll be back, soon as they figure you’re okay.” An acorn appeared between the squirrel man’s thumb and forefinger. A squirrel approached, and after giving me a wary look, jumped on the man’s knee and grabbed his prize.

“See? They’re just a little shy, that’s all.” He paused and took a long breath. “You come through here ‘bout this time every day.”

I nodded. “It’s a shortcut to work.”

“You got a good job?”

“I think so. I enjoy what I do.” I paused, feeling my curiosity get the better of me. “Are you…are you retired?”

He nodded. “Long time.”

I flinched as a gust of wind hit us. The snow came faster. Drifts began to pile up against the trees.

“Aren’t you cold?” I asked. "It's terrible out here."

“I’m always cold. Ever since I was in Bastogne. That’s a Belgian town, you know. Everybody thinks it’s in France but it’s not.”

“You were there during World War II,” I guessed.

“Yep. I was a paratrooper. Got caught in the middle of the Battle of the Bulge. Them Krauts came through the forest with everything they had. Shot the hell out of us.”

A nugget of corn appeared in the man’s hand. Two squirrels jumped in his lap and fought for it, chittering angrily.

“The whole world wants to fight,” the man said. “It don’t solve nothing.”

“You must have been brave to be at Bastogne,” I said.

“Nah. It don’t take bravery to jump out of a burning building, does it? We were there because we had a job to do. Besides, if we’d come out of our foxholes, the Krauts would’ve picked us off in a second.” He paused and closed his eyes. “It was real pretty in those woods. Sometimes at night, it got so quiet, all you could hear was the snow dropping from the branches.”

I groped for something positive to say. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

He stared at the ground in silence while more squirrels advanced. He made sure they all got a piece of corn.

“Soon be Christmas,” he said. “You can hear the bell ringers all over the park. They got real pretty lights strung up on the buildings.”

I could no longer feel my toes and I was late for work but I couldn’t leave. “Do you have family?”
“Probably so. They don’t much want anything to do with me.”

“Why?” I asked and immediately wished I hadn't.

“I got shot up pretty good at Bastogne. I weren’t the same any more.”

“I’m sor—”

“I don’t want nobody to be sorry. I took my life as it came, and that’s all anybody can ask of me.”

I started to feel a little frantic. I wanted to get inside where it was warm but I couldn’t get up and leave the old man alone. “Do you have somewhere to go for Christmas?” I heard myself ask.

He nodded. “Got my post right here. The squirrels don’t know about Christmas. They get hungry no matter what day it is.”

“It’s too cold,” I said. “You can’t sit out here in this kind of weather.”

His head slowly swiveled toward me. “Bastogne was worse, lady. At least here I don’t have nobody shooting at me.”

“I’ve got to go.” I stood and shook snow off of my coat. “What if I brought you something warm later on? Maybe some coffee or some soup?”

“I’m okay just like I am.” He pointed at the lapel of my coat. “I like that pin. I used to keep bees, long time ago.”

I glanced down at the gold honeybee pinned to my lapel. “My sons gave this to me a couple of years ago. I’d almost forgotten it was there. Look, are you sure there isn’t something—”

“Get out of here before you’re late for work.” The old man turned away and gave his attention to the squirrels. As I walked away, they swarmed over him, waiting for something to eat.

That day, I couldn’t stop thinking about the squirrel man. I felt guilty sitting in my warm office. After taking a sip from my fourth cup of gourmet coffee, I made up my mind to do something for him.

The snow continued to fall. Schools let out early; street closures came over the radio. It looked to be one of the biggest snowfalls in years. Surely the squirrel man had gone for shelter somewhere. No one could last long in this weather.

I left work a little early and hurried to the park. It was nearly dark. A police car and an ambulance stood at the entrance, their lights flashing. A fender bender, I decided. Cars were skidding all over the icy streets.

The park bench was empty. All around it, shoeprints had churned the snow into mush. I felt eyes peering at me and looked up into the trees. Dozens of squirrels looked back.

A policeman approached, scribbling something in a notebook.

I pointed to the park bench. “There was an old man—”

“Crazy old coot.” The policeman snorted. “Sat there so long he froze to death.”

“No!” I blurted. “Not him.”

The policeman shrugged. “’Fraid so. Happens all the time.”

“What was his name?” I needed to know.

“No idea. Just another vagrant.” The officer peered at me and pulled a small package from his pocket. It was wrapped in a greasy menu from a Chinese place down the street. He glanced at the package and nodded. “Found this on the old guy. Are you the bee lady?”

I nodded. “He liked my pin.”

“Works for me. No crime committed here, so we don’t need this for evidence.” He tossed the package to me and walked away.

Give this to the bee lady, the old man had written in a shaky hand. I fumbled to unwrap the paper and found a worn velvet box, and inside that, a medal with a striped ribbon. A silver star. I turned it over. For Gallantry in Action, it read.

I stared at the park bench, now empty, and tears began to burn my eyes. “I didn’t even know the man,” I said out loud. “I shouldn’t be this upset.” I started to walk away but after a few steps I stopped and looked into the trees. “Okay, I’ll be back,” I told the squirrels. “You won’t go hungry.”

I hugged my coat a little closer and turned into the teeth of the wind. I wondered how cold it got in Bastogne.

Odds and Ends

Dr. Missy's Almanac

1/31: Send a Fan Letter to Bob Keeshan Day in Gnaw Bone, IN
2/3: Remember that Bob Keeshan Is No Longer with Us Day in Gnaw Bone, IN
2/7: Feel Bad About the Bob Keeshan Thing Day in Gnaw Bone, IN
2/12: Set Fire to a Pumpkin Festival in St. Louis, MO
2/14: National Salad Fork Day in New York City


I Didn't Make this Up

Here is a picture from an ad I received yesterday, which has not been altered in any way. I find it disturbing. Perhaps the economy is worse than I thought. Also, I don't want to think about what that orange stuff in the bowl might be.



Arcola Strikes Again!

The National Toy Hall of Fame features such well-known playthings as Legos, Hot Wheels, Tinkertoys, Tonka Trucks, and the Hula Hoop. No surprise there. In 2002, the Raggedy Ann doll joined the inductees, followed in 2007 by Raggedy Andy. These dolls were created by Johnny Gruelle of Arcola, Illinois.

The 2008 inductees included the baby doll, the skateboard and a stick. Yes, a stick. A plain old stick from a sycamore tree, to be precise. This choice received a great deal of media attention but what I find interesting is that the owner of said stick is one Julian Harshbarger of that hotbed of toy design, Arcola, Illinois.

By the way, Mr. Potato Head and Crayola crayons failed to make the cut this year. Apparently they weren't invented in Arcola.


Barack Obama: Senator, President...Lawn Ranger

Here is a picture of Barack Obama brandishing a toilet plunger.


To be honest, Mr. Obama was not president when this picture was taken. He was campaigning for the U.S. Senate in 2003 when he happened to run into an interesting bunch called the Lawn Rangers. (Official motto: You're only young once... but you can always be immature.)

The Lawn Rangers are a group of men who describe themselves as a "precision lawn mower drill team." They count among their membership such famous authors as Dave Barry. Okay, Barry is the only famous author in the group but who's counting? Barry describes the Lawn Rangers thusly: "We are an extremely random group of middle-age guys who carry brooms and push specially decorated show lawn mowers, which we use to perform synchronized broom-and-lawn mower maneuvers that always get a big crowd reaction (usually: 'Huh?')."

So far, the Rangers have marched in over 200 parades, including those for the Holiday Bowl, the Indianapolis 500, the Fiesta Bowl, and the Broomcorn Festival to name but a few. During these parades, the Rangers often carry batons, or as most of us call them, toilet plungers, which is how Obama came to be photographed holding one.

When Obama won the presidency, the head Ranger, Pat Monahan, remembered that 2003 picture. Overcome with patriotic fever, he decided it would be a good idea for the Rangers to march in the inauguration parade.

For reasons no one understands, the parade organizers agreed. And so the Rangers, clad in red graduation gowns and cowboy hats, thrilled (confused) Washington with an exhibition of their lawn mower pushing skill. According to Barry, five Ranger women dressed as Abraham Lincoln (with beards) were also on hand, carrying a banner announcing the Rangers' world-famous status.

As you probably know, the Lawn Rangers are based in Arcola, Illinois. Must be something in the water.

See the Rangers in action in this ABC News clip: http://tinyurl.com/cr54yj


Email of the Day

Dear Dr. Missy, My agent thinks we should hire a freelance editor. Problem is, an editor will cost anywhere from .015 cents a word to .03 cents a word, which can get pretty expensive. I figure a full manuscript would cost about $2,000. Is this a good idea?

Lost Linda (My real name is Bev but don't tell anyone)


Dear Lost,

My agent, Eddie "Carwash" LaRue paid a freelance editor to read one of my stories. He blew the money buying rude pictures of Angela Lansbury on eBay and skipped town.

The next editor was better but not much. He actually read my stuff but when he finished, he threw himself out of the nearest window, screaming "I can't live in a world where people who write like this exist!" or words to that effect.

Thing is, the fall wouldn't have killed him, as it was a first floor window, but he landed in the middle of Chinese throwing star competition and died of massive blood loss plus his head came off. Needless to say, he didn't do us much good.

I hope this helps.

Dr. Missy

Procrastinating!

Dr. Missy's Almanac

1/16: Rearrange Your Dirt Day in Westmoreland, TN
1/21: Be Mean to Mr. Claude Templar for No Good Reason Day in Parkland, OR
1/25: Valentine's Day in Canadia
1/28: Order the Clam Special at Howard Johnson's and Refuse to Eat It Day in Houston, TX
1/30: Wear Your Shoes Backward Festival in Kansas City, MO


How to procrastinate

It's a whole new year! Woo hoo! Yay!

Everyone is busy making resolutions to make this the bestest and brightest year ever! In fact, people on the CW list are being forced (possibly at gunpoint, possibly by blackmail) to come up with their "one word" for 2009, that single clump of letters they will use to steel themselves for the challenges of the next twelvemonth period. These words include: hope, contract, dedication, confidence, pus, finish, and kretch.

As the purpose of this blog is to be as dysfunctional as possible, my word shall be... PROCRASTINATE! Ha ha!

Here are ten activities I will use to successfully procrastinate throughout 2009:

1. Tweezing the middle out of my unibrow
2. Singing the Madagascarian national anthem (it rocks!)
3. Playing my extensive collection of Cowsills records backward to find secret messages
4. Spying on my neighbor, Mr. Bushida, via one of the cameras I secretly installed in his home
4. Playing Wimpy Bells over and over at www.wimpykid.com/WimpyBells.html
5. Writing hysterical letters to Dotti Enderle claiming that her books have caused my soul to be taken over by Randolph Mantooth
6. Counting how many staples are left in the staple gun
7. Bandaging wounds caused by checking how many staples are left in the staple gun
8. Staring at interesting bits of metal discovered in the driveway
9. Seeing how many different words I can make out of "SCBWI"
10. Arranging my tubes of foot lotion in alphabetical order


What happened to this blog?

Okay, it's been a long time since I updated this blog. I could say that sinister forces were at work trying to corner the world's supply of Corn Nuts and only I could stop them. I could say I had been kidnapped by a cult dedicated to the overthrow of the Jonas Brothers, whoever they are.

Or I could say I've been busy managing my real estate empire, which consisted of a couple of apartment buildings my mother left me. After a month, I decided to rename the apartments Mom's Revenge because being a landlord is a crummy job. People called up constantly wanting things! My bathroom faucet doesn't work. I lost my keys. My apartment needs to be repainted. I think I saw a mouse last night. There's a vampire hiding under the kitchen sink. On and on and on, except when it was time to pay the rent, and then half of them became very quiet and were never home when I came around to collect. Then I had to toddle off to court in a vain attempt to get the non-payers to cough it up.

Eventually I found someone to buy the apartments. I didn't quite get the price I wanted but my life suddenly became less complicated and now I have enough money to buy a trebuchet capable of hurling a grand piano at least 500 yards. (Never mind why I need one--I just do.)


Email of the day

Dear Dr. Missy,

I'm writing a story and I want to include this line: "The sun shone bright." But then I got to thinking, maybe it should be "The sun shined bright." Or the "The sun shone brightly." Now I'm horribly confused and don't know what to do. My writing has come to a standstill and I now spend most of my time wandering the back yard muttering to myself. I'm afraid the neighbors will think I'm crazy. Please help me finish my book!

Perplexed in Vegas


Dear Perplexed,

One thing is for sure. You will never get a book published if you continue to write like a hack. If you were an author with any real talent, you would have written this: "The sun blazed in the sky like some massive sun-like object, a roaring furnace of fantastic heat that, if you were to touch it, would hurt like the dickens and probably cause a blister. And while the sun shined brightly overhead, the mother died and her kid acted up and got all full of angst. A bunch of other people died too, horrible lingering deaths with a lot of pus and bile and stuff. In the end, though, hard lessons were learned, lessons that would carry them through the tough times when robots ruled the world and everyone was forced to eat asparagus." That, my friend, is the stuff that wins Newbery Awards. Get with it!

Dr. Missy

Do you have a question for Dr. Missy? If so, write in care of this blog and it might get answered, depending on how busy I am with the new trebuchet and any legal problems that result.

The French love me and Jerry Lewis

Dr. Missy's Almanac

Upcoming holidays:

May 11: Throw a Hex Nut Wrench Through Your Neighbor's Window Day in Deland, Florida
May 15: Snicker at a Republican Day in Pittsburgh, Kansas
May 24: Follow Someone You Don't Know Until They Get Nervous and Call the Cops Day in Boston, Massachusetts
May 25: Refer to Your Best Friend as Albert Even If That's Not His Name Day in Lansing, Michigan
May 30: National Claim to Have Eaten a Deadly Black Mambo Viper Day in Madagascar


Great review for moi!

For some odd reason my big people novel has shown up at Amazon France. Not only that, it received a four-star review! Unfortunately, I don't read a lick of French but I did pick out a few phases, like monde de la perversion, que chaotique, and beaucoup amusée. Hooray for me!

I think.

People always ask, why do you keep your book a secret? I don't, not really. In fact, this very blog sat around for a month with a picture of me wearing a Santa hat whilst reading my opus and declaring it to be the best book ever written, or some such thing. No one said a word.

In other news, I am seriously considering creating the world's first DMI, or Dead Mother Index. It would consist of examining whatever books come my way and then summarizing how the parental units fare in said books. Of course, you readers are welcome to make submissions as well! The more the merrier!

The DMI so far:

THE TRUE MEANING OF SMEKDAY: Absent father, missing mother
THE DAY MY BUTT WENT PSYCHO: Dead mother
ENDYMION SPRING: Parents separated
BLACK BOOK OF SECRETS: Parents alive but creepy and homicidal
TUNNELS: Missing father, deranged mother
FLORA SEGUNDA: Deranged father
ATTACK OF THE FROZEN WOODCHUCKS: Dead mother
AIRBORN: Dead father
AIRMAN: Parents alive and reasonably normal
PURE DEAD FROZEN: Parents alive but odd in a cool way

You get the idea.


Bev Cooke tears the roof off the sucker!

Bev Cooke is the author of KEEPER OF THE LIGHT: SAINT MACRINATHE ELDER, GRANDMOTHER OF SAINTS from Conciliar Press, the newly released FERAL from Orca Books, and the forthcoming KEEPER OF THE LIGHT, also from Conciliar Press.

Dr. Missy: Looking at these titles, I would say they are about a
lighthouse keeper, a wolf, and a different lighthouse keeper. Am I right?

Bev Cooke: Close - very close! the third book is "Royal Monastic" about a snooty princess who has a secret identity as a nun and works as a spy for Interpol.

Seriously, Keeper of the Light is about St. Macrina the Elder, an early Christian saint who was exiled for 7 years into the wilderness (and she had about as much woodlore as a life-long New York City native who might be able to identify a squirrel in Central Park) then, once she returned to her city, became destitute when the Roman Empire took away all she owned. She was basically a street person for a few years, then when Christianity became legal, got all her belongings back.

Feral is about a cat who lives in the subway and the street kid who befriends her.

Royal Monastic is a biography of Princess Ileana of Romania - who was not your typical princess and her life was not what you'd call a typical life of royalty, unless of course, being exiled, broke and sick all your life is your idea of how royal people live.

DM: What moved you to write these particular books?

BC: This little guy sneaked into my office and held some kind of weird ray gun to my head and promised that if I didn't, he'd take me into his space ship and forcibly marry me to Elvis. I figured anything was better than that, and besides, I'm already married, so I wrote the books.

Seriously, the first two have to do with my faith - in the first, I was drawn to St. Macrina, not just because of what she suffered for her faith, but for the fact that she taught her grandsons about the faith. Her grandsons went on to become giants of the Christian religion - the work they did still affects us today, and monks and nuns still live under the rules St. Basil the Great wrote down for monastics. But without Macrina's teaching, they wouldn't have been able to take the steps they did to make the discoveries they made.

Royal Monastic was suggested to me by my publisher - and the more I learned about Ileana and what she went through in her life, the more impressed I was by her - her courage, her good humour, her ability to get up and keep going when things knocked her down.

Feral is about belonging and acceptance and what you'll do to belong. Since I spent a lot of my younger years feeling very much an outsider, the book was an exploration of that. And a lot of kids spend a lot of time feeling like they're outside - I think because they're not really kids anymore, but they're not adults either, and so they don't quite fit into either 'box.' And I like cats a lot - so it was easy to write about a cat.

DM: Which of the following words describes you best?
A. Gangsta rapper
B. International weapons dealer
C. Zookeeper
D. Mixed martial arts fighter
E. Washed up soap opera actress

BC: Oh, you know, I'd love to be a combination of a gansta rapper, a zookeeper and and mixed artial arts fighter, but I'm probably more like the washed up soap opera actress.

DM: Tell us about your favorite book. Or not. It's not like I have any power over you or anything but if you don't tell us about it, I will probably do something awful to you. I hate to be that way, you know? Being an interviewer is hard, so very hard. I didn't sleep at all last night, knowing I would have to write these questions. I thrashed around in bed, bathed in a cold sweat, and occasionally I would cry softly to myself. It's a far greater burden than anyone should have to bear. It's not like I'm asking for pity, you understand. It's just that it's so bloody stressful trying to get people to answer simple questions! Tell us about your favorite book! Is that so hard? No! I don't think so! Just do it already!

BC: Oh, Dr. Missy, it's too bad you stayed up all night - you missed the greatest dreams in the world. But do I feel sorry for you? Mwhahahahahahahaha no! Because that meant *I* got them all. And I'm keeping them and not sharing - not at all! Mine, all mine, I tell you! I have all the best dreams in the entire world and nobody else can have them!

Ahem.

My favourite books: it's more like my favourite authors. Once I find a book I like, I search out other books by the same writer. Beth Goobie, Carrie Mac, Tim Wynne Jones, Kenneth Oppel, and Arthur Slade are about my favourite Canadian YA authors. Chris Crutcher, Dotti Enderle, Diana Wynne Jones, Arthur Ransome, and CS Lewis are some of my favourite US & British YA authors. Adult writers: Terry Pratchett, Peter Straub, Stephen King, Shirley Jackson, Stephen Brust, Barry Hughheart, Andre Norton, Anne McCaffrey. Anything by any of them.

DM: Have you done any book signings? How did that go? If you haven't done any book signings, tell us about latex catsuits or whatever.

BC: I've done two book signings. One was nice and quiet and straightforward - they gave me books, I signed them. Unfortunately, at that one, I met a fan who then showed up at the next one, and between the weird guy in the brown leather bear suit, my reclusive next door neighbour who only comes out when the moon is full and howls at it, the stranger who was only in the bookstore to buy the latest around the world cookbook and myself, we managed to overpower him and wrestle him to the ground before he was able to do more than torch the travel section of the bookstore. But frankly, if it hadn't been for the gold miner from the north part of the island, who drove everyone away with his smell, I'm not sure we'd have succeeded.

DM: What's the best part of writing for children?

BC: Being a kid in my head - I don't think I ever really grew up and this way I get to be a kid all the time, without having to spend time in my local institution and take lots of medication.

DM: Who was the better Catwoman, Julie Newmar, Eartha Kitt, or Lee Meriwether? Discuss.

BC: Julie Newmar - she originated the role and that black shiny plastic just works.

DM: What words of advice do you have for the beginning children's writer?

BC: Stick with it, read everything you can lay your hands on, write constantly, and write what you love and moves you.

DM: Dead mother books: Cliche or not?

BC: Cliche unless the mother is a zombie (but zombies are kinda cliche too), or the entire book is about dead people.

DM: What's the weirdest thing in your office or writing space?

BC: My four foot high stuffed raccoon, who doubles as my social secretary.

DM: What's next for Bev Cooke? And by that, I mean a writing project and not what you usually do next, which I can't mention on a family blog.

BC: Mwhahahahahahahahaha! I can't tell you anyway, it's top secret, but I will say that involves latex cat suits, international spies and a gold mine in the north part of the Island.

Seriously - I'm working on three projects - one is about a bioengineered troll who likes music and hair ribbons, one is a story told from the point of view of an insane teenager (I mean more insane than they usually are, and in different ways. Teen insanity is usually pretty cool, but this won't be), and a collaboration with a friend about a Fool for Christ.

DM: Ask yourself a question. Go on, do it. Don't make me angry.

BC: What are you going to do when you get to the gold mine?

(None of your business, you nosy parker, Bev.!)


Email of the day

Dear Dr. Missy,

What's the deal with you anyway?

Susan (but not the one you know)


Dear Susan,

What's the deal with me, you ask? I'll tell you. We swim in deep and treacherous waters, my friend, where behind every corner lurks one of those giant squid things with nasty suckers. Yes, we must face the fact that the driveway of freedom is cracked and in need of repair and the seven-point inspection plan of courage often omits step five. Why is it that we can rip a CD but we can't rip our hearts out to show our compassion? Why is the money-back guarantee of intelligence often sent in too late to receive a manufacturer's refund?

Now is the time to step back and ponder how we can return to a time when the hair of wisdom gleamed with protein conditioners, when the six-pack abs of caring were ripped and well-defined. But that's not enough! We must stop buying things where the little plastic bits are going to break off after a week's use, just as our souls have broken off and lie strewn in the leaf proof gutter of despair. I think you know what I mean.

Sincerely,
Dr. Missy