Penny Warner: Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Penny) — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 21:03:00 +0000

POST PARTY POOPED

I just spent three hours washing plastic glasses and glass platters, wiping spilled drinks and food from patio tables, and collecting stray paper napkins from bushes and shrubs. I’m pooped. But I enjoyed every minute of it.

The mess is due to the aftermath of my husband’s 60th birthday party. And cleaning up that mess gave me a chance to relive the party all over again. After weeks of planning and preparation, making invitations that looked like mini-menus, turning the backyard into a Spanish Bistro, and hiring a special surprise guest, the whole event seemed to pass by as quickly as the last six decades.

No matter. Cleaning up gave me the time to recall every detail of Tom’s milestone birthday party. For his Big Six-Oh, I wanted something special. But when I asked him whether he’d like to go away for a romantic weekend, buy the latest electronic gadget, or spend the day on the golf course, he surprised me.

“Cook,” he said simply.

Cook? I should have known, after living with him for nearly forty of his sixty years. His dream has always been to open a bed and breakfast one day and cook gourmet meals for the weekend guests. Instead, we’d host a small dinner party for family and close friends—and he could cook the gourmet meal.

Perfect—except it didn’t seem very special for this monumental occasion. How could I make his 60th something he’d remember until he was at least 70? Easy. Invite a real chef from his favorite restaurant to be his sou chef for the evening. But would Rodney Worth from the Peasant and the Pear—who’d just been named Best Chef in the East Bay by Diablo Magazine—step up to the plate, so to speak? Well, dreams do come true. Rodney appeared at the front door an hour before the party was to begin and the two chefs donned their white jackets. By the time the guests arrived for their “dinner reservations,” the sangria was mixed and the appetizers were ready to be served.

“Hi, I’m Penny, and I’ll be your server this evening,” I said, greeting our friends and family. Unfortunately, my waitressing left much to be desired, but I managed to pass out the food and drinks without spilling anything on anyone but myself. Soon everyone was seated at tables covered in red and yellow Spanish flags. They were free to don the decorative Matador hats or cool themselves with the black lace fans while they watched the chefs “bam” the paella ingredients into a pan the size of Madrid.

After we finished stuffing ourselves, I brought out the favors—party bags filled with “unusual” cooking gadgets. Each guest had to match wits with Tom to name the kitchen kitsch. After several glasses of sangria, not even our master chef could identify the syringe-looking thing (flavor injector), the Wham-O-looking thing (corn cutter), the giant cookie-cutter-looking thing (pancake shaper), or the spice-rack-looking thing (Beer Can Chicken Roaster).

Rodney and the guests are gone, the kitchen is piled high with sparkling clean pans, the patio is slick from a good hosing, and the rented dishes are stacked and ready to be returned. Yeah, I’m pooped from all the clean up. But I can’t wait until my husband turns 70, so I can do it all again.

noreply@blogger.com (Penny) — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 16:09:00 +0000

DADDY’S HOME
I didn’t get to see my newest grandson much this week. That’s because nine-month-old Luke has been with his daddy Mike every day. And believe it or not, Mike got paid for staying home to be with Luke. In fact, this is the third time Mike has been paid to be with his baby. He also got four weeks right after Luke was born and another week when Luke was about six months.

It’s all part of a relatively new law called Paid Family Leave (PFL). Unfortunately, lots of dads don’t know about this law, and that’s a shame. Luckily, Mike learned about it from his boss, who had recently had her own baby.

“At first,” Mike said, “I didn’t know what it was and didn’t want to use it. I didn’t think it would pay me enough. But I finally checked it out, looked at the website to see how it worked, and thought it was great.”
Paid Family Leave enabled Mike to be with his wife—a new mother—and his new son during those precious early weeks. He was there to help Rebecca with new baby chores, and bond with little Luke. “I couldn’t believe I could take all that time to be with him and even get paid for it.” Mike said. “Any time I can spend with Luke, I’ll take it. Of course, I found out fast it’s harder work taking care of a baby than what I do at my job. But it’s also more rewarding.”

My daughter Rebecca grinned at Mike’s confession that parenting is hard work. “Now he knows what I do all day.” But he also knows that when he’s at his regular job, he’s missing some important milestones with his son. “When I go to work, I don’t see him in the morning, when he wakes up so happy. By the time I get home, he’s tired, cranky, and ready for bed soon. But during the leave, I not only got to see him laughing and talking in the morning like Becca does, but I also got to feed him breakfast, take him for a walk or to the hardware store, join him for his swimming lessons. I even saw him really crawl for the first time. When I go back at work, I miss him. I email or call Becca and say, “What’s he doing now? Send me a photo!”

I wish they’d had Paid Family Leave when I’d had my kids. I could have used the help and support of my husband during that exciting but frightening time. Dads today are so lucky. Thanks to the State of California Employment Development Department (EDD), people can take time off work to bond with a new baby for up to six weeks within a twelve-month period. As for Mike and Luke, they seem bonded for life. I see evidence of that bond in the way Mike looks at his son, the way he holds him, cares for him, and plays with him. And I can see it in Luke when his face lights up just at the sight of his father.

“Becca has this great bond with him and I’m just around at the end of the day, and two days a week,” Mike added. “So this has definitely made a different in our relationship. Luke is only going to be this young for so long and I don’t want to miss a thing.”

noreply@blogger.com (Penny) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 18:17:00 +0000

HOW DID I BECOME A WRITER?

I never planned to be a writer. I wanted to be a detective like Nancy Drew. But now that I’ve had over 50 books published—including THE OFFICIAL NANCY DREW HANDBOOK—I can’t imagine doing anything else.

If you’re a writer, you’re well aware there’s something festering inside you that must come out on paper—and it’s not just your grocery list, as well written as it might be. At least, that’s what it’s like for me. So after giving up a promising career in sleuthing to become a mother, I began to write.

My first works were non-fiction, based on topics of interest to me at the time. Since I’d just given birth to my first child, I was hungry for anything that had to do with babies—what to feed them, how to play with them, what to do with them all day long. After checking the bookshelves and finding little more than Dr. Spock’s tips on diapering and drooling, I realized there was a gap in the market that need filling. So with my background in Early Childhood Education and Special Ed, and my “vast” experience with my new baby, I realized I was practically an expert in this wide-open field of parenting.

With dreams of quickly typing up my first book, choosing a prestigious agent who would get me an advance large enough to pay for a summer home near Disneyland, and watching my publisher get me on Oprah (or at least Jerry Springer), I wrote a proposal. I figured, why write the whole book in case it doesn’t actually sell. Without an agent, that first proposal for a book called HEALTHY SNACKS FOR KIDS saw every publisher from Acme to Zero. I rapidly collected enough rejection slips to paper my “summer home.”

Just about the time I’d given up hope of selling the book, I got a phone call from a local publisher interested in buying it. After doing a joyous happy dance, accompanied by more visions of glamorous pub parties, multi-city book tours, and carpal tunnel from signing so many autographs, reality quickly set it. The advance would barely pay for the cost of my paper. My name would be in a size two font. And my request for a sizeable publicity budget would become the publishing house joke.

Still, I had my first book. Published. By a real publisher. With my name on it (in a size two font.) Meanwhile, I’d learned a lot about the publishing business in the process. I learned that I needed an agent to help me find the right publisher for the book (and avoid posers like iUniverse and Alibris). I needed an agent to get me the best possible contract (I was so grateful to be published, I would have paid the publisher!) Most of all, I needed an agent to help me plan and manage my career (otherwise I’d still be writing SON OF HEALTHY SNACKS FOR KIDS, BRIDE OF HEALTHY SNACKS FOR KIDS, and so on.).

So after 30 years in this business, I still love it. There’s nothing like the high you get when your agent says, “I sold your book!” Likewise, there’s nothing like seeing your “baby” in print for the first time. But I consider myself a working author. I still don’t have a summer home. Not even a yacht. But my advances and royalties, while not even close to Stephen King’s, have paid for my kids' orthodonture, their college education, and a new patio for my husband. (According to my agent, 80% of advances are under 20K. I’ve also heard that most writers make less that $4,000 a year!)

Since my first advance was so low, I’m grateful for whatever amount my agent can get me above that. And I know how the business works—it’s slower than watching ink dry—so I try not to call my agent every day “just to check in.” I spend that time working on my next book while waiting for that exciting phone call. I also know I’m going to have to rewrite that proposal several times to make it perfect, find a “platform” (whatever that means), and create a realistic marketing plan that doesn’t use up my entire advance. And I know that when my book is published, my editor isn’t going to fly me to New York for lunch, rent billboard space announcing my latest title, or get me on The View, let alone Jerry Springer.

But like I said, I’d rather do this than anything else—solve crimes, host parties, play with kids. I can do all that and more—on paper. And with my last advance, I finally bought myself a roadster.

noreply@blogger.com (Penny) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 17:00:00 +0000

A PLACE FOR MOM

It seems as if, just when we’ve turned our independent children out on their own, we welcome two new family members back into the flock—our grandchildren and our parents. Like many others of my Baby Boomer generation, my husband and I are seeing our once vibrant parents age, fall ill, and become dependent on us like we once were on them.

When Tom’s mother became bed-ridden, we didn’t have a clue what to do to help her. She was eager to return to her own comfortable and familiar home, so we hired an LVN to come in every day to see to her needs. But when that became too much for even the experienced worker, we moved Mary to a nearby care facility with a home-like setting. Eventually, due to her increasing health issues, she had to enter a full-care nursing facility. The whole process was confusing, overwhelming, expensive, and heartbreaking. We simply weren’t prepared for this stage of our lives and our parents’ lives.

Luckily, we’ve discovered A Place for Mom, thanks to Maureen Johnston, a woman who seems to have been born with a smile on her face. Maureen had worked in real estate for years before deciding she wanted to do something more meaningful with the second half of her life. Like us, she and her husband Rob had been through a similar experience with Rob’s mother, Bobbie. “Bobbie suffers from a form of dementia,” Maureen said, “so I began by hiring caregivers. But none of them lasted long because she couldn’t get along with them. Plus, it was eating up her bank account.”

They moved Bobbie from home care to assisted living, but when she broke her hip, her dementia worsened and she was moved from the hospital to a lockdown rehab facility. “That was a shock,” Maureen said. “She kept saying ‘Get me out of here!’ We finally found a residential care home in Danville. After I learned about A Place for Mom, we found out about hospice. Now she has weekly medical care, RN visits, a social worker, and a spiritual adviser, all free from Medicare.”

Through her experiences finding the right place for her mother-in-law, Maureen also found she enjoyed working with elderly people. “I love talking with them. They just come to life. And the stories you hear are amazing. One 93-year-old lady was a Holocaust survivor who kept talking about her baby. Her neighbor said she’d had an eight-month-old baby that was taken from her then. One day I bought her a baby doll and she hugged it with tears in her eyes. Now she sleeps with it.”

Once Bobbie was settled, Maureen trained for a position at A Place for Mom. She now has a list of services in the Valley. After finding out what the needs are—everything from how much money they want to spend to what kind of facility they need—she tries to match them with the right place. “I do get personally involved sometimes and it often affects me. But there’s as much joy as sorrow, and I get a lot of nice emails from the families I’ve helped.”

It’s not too late for us to call Maureen at A Place for Mom and see what else might be available for Mary, such as hospice care. And if you need her help with finding eldercare options for your aging parents, you can contact her too. She’s especially good at putting a smile on a face that’s been missing one.

Maureen Johnston can be reached at A Place for Mom, 866-633-7856 or at maureenj@aplaceformom.com.

noreply@blogger.com (Penny) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 03:36:00 +0000

HANGING UP THE PHONE.

It seems like only a short time ago I was glaring at people who talked on their cell phones in public places—at restaurants, in cars, walking down the street. Were their conversations really so important, they needed to talk RIGHT NOW? At the time, I wrote them off as not only inconsiderate, but show-offs: “I have a cell phone and I’m important.”

Of course, now that I have one, it’s different. I need it. I don’t know how I got along without it. There have been so many times I’ve needed to know what video to rent RIGHT NOW, whether we need milk RIGHT NOW, or if that’s you in the car ahead of me RIGHT NOW.

I’m not alone. Now it appears as if everyone has a cell phone—even toddlers. You can’t live here in the Valley without seeing nearly every other person chatting away on an iPhone, Blackberry, or other form of wireless communication. I mean, when was the last time you saw a phone booth? (“Yes, Virginia, that’s what we used to use to call our friends. No, it doesn’t text.”)

So now that I find the device indispensable, the powers that be don’t want me to use it any more—at least in the car. Hey, that’s where many of us in the area spend half our time. Yes, it’s annoying to see other drivers yakking on the phone and not paying attention to the road, but I’m not one of them. I can multi-task. I can listen to the radio, talk on the phone, apply lip balm, check my teeth in the rearview mirror, and think up column ideas all while driving down the street. I’m surprised not everyone else can.

But my husband doesn’t possess this skill.Tom can’t even listen to a book on tape while driving. One time, while listening to Harlan Coben, he ended up in Santa Cruz when he meant to go to Palo Alto. He’s worse when he talks on the phone. He drives 35 in the fast lane, stops at green lights, and forgets to turn off his blinker for days. Granted, he shouldn’t talk on the phone at home either. That’s when he’s most apt to put the milk in the cupboard, leave the coffee maker on, and forget to put lettuce in the salad.

But holding the phone in his hand has nothing to do with it. And that’s why this new law isn’t going to work. Being hands-free isn’t the problem, for those who need to be brain-free. Think about it. I can still dial, check my email, send a text message, take a picture of the ducks crossing the street in front of my car, scan for an iTune, blog my latest news, check my MySpace site, or watch a YouTube video.

Isn’t that a lot more dangerous than holding something to your ear? Come to think of it, isn’t fumbling around for a Bluetooth or plugging in an earphone or trying to find the speakerphone volume even worse? If we lose the freedom of hand-held car-speech, what’s next? Pretty soon we won’t be able to put on makeup, shave, play the air guitar, change into a new outfit, or eat cereal while we drive. I say, call your representative today.

From your cell phone.
While you’re driving.
Before July 1st, that is.

noreply@blogger.com (Penny) — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 03:50:00 +0000

LOST AND FOUND
Summer is nearly here: Do you know where your grandson is?
Apparently I don’t, at least not all the time. And I’m not alone. According to statistics I found on “statistics.com,” 2,000 kids are lost every day, and at least 90% of parents will lose a child once. Summer is the most common time parents—and grandparents—are likely to lose their children—27% at amusement parks and 45% at shops or malls.
Like Target. That’s where I lost my three-year-old grandson the other day. I’d just turned my head for one second—one second!—to tell my daughter-in-law Sue that I’d watch Bradley while she finished shopping. By the time I turned back, my grandson had disappeared. Last seen: Heading down the sporting goods aisle.
I didn’t panic. I just told myself he’d turned the corner, as I sped down the aisle like a racecar driver. No sign of Bradley. My heart kicked into hyper-speed as I bolted for the toy department, certain I’d find him there. But after a thorough search of the Thomas the Train aisle, the Pirates of the Caribbean aisle, even the Barbie aisle, I knew I’d lost him.
Apparently the look of hysteria was clear on my face from twenty feet away. A clerk folding clothes in the men’s department called out, “Do you need some help?” Near tears, I nodded. “I’ve lost my grandson!” Before I could burst into real tears, the clerk clicked on a tiny intercom attached to her ear and spoke into a miniature microphone: “Code Yellow.”
In the blink of an eye (about the time it takes to lose a little boy), I was surrounded by red-vested Target employees who had been alerted to my predicament via their “walkies.” “Lock down!” another clerk said into his mic. In seconds clerks from all over the store swarmed the floor, all looking for “a three-year-old boy in an orange shirt.” Minutes passed. Still no sign of Bradley.
While clerks continued searching, I returned to the spot where I’d last seen my grandson—sporting goods. Puzzled as to how he could have disappeared so quickly, I glanced down the aisle carefully this time, finally focusing on a row of bicycles against the far wall. There, nearly hidden in the myriad tire spokes, I caught a glimpse of bright orange. I moved closer, straining to see between the camouflage of bikes. Sure enough, tucked behind a bike wheel, was my little grandson. Playing hide and seek.
“Bradley!” I squealed, pulling him out from his hiding space. I should have known. He loved playing hide and seek. This had all been a game to him. “I found him!” I shouted to the red-vested employees who were still searching the area.
“Cancel Code Yellow,” the clerk in charge announced into his walkie. I thanked the smiling workers as they returned to their positions, while holding a bewildered Bradley in a visor-like bear hug. It was probably pointless to tell him how he shouldn’t play hide and seek at the store and how worried I was that I’d lost him and how much everyone had been looking for him. He’s only three. But at my age, I should have known better than to let go of that little hand, even for one second.
Luckily, Target—and many other stores like it today—have implemented this new system of protecting children when their parents or grandparents take them shopping. Good thing—for Bradley and me. Although maybe Grandma needs to be kept on a leash.

noreply@blogger.com (Penny) — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 03:46:00 +0000

ROAD TRIP
Remember the Bickersons? Probably before your time. Mine too, actually. But my mother had recordings of the world’s most argumentative couple, voiced by Don Ameche and Frances Langford, and I loved listening to their witty repartee.
Unfortunately, after 38 years of marriage, my husband and I have become the Bickersons. At least when we’re in the car.We recently took a road trip to Los Angeles. Why, in this day and age, would we drive to the land of “swimmin’ pools and movie stars” when we could fly for less than the current price of a tank of gas and arrive in less than two hours? Books. That’s why.
We had passes to the annual Book Expo Show, where hundreds of publishers give out their future best-selling tomes to anyone with an outreached hand. Unlike a pharmaceutical expo where you get free notepads and pens with drug logos, or computer shows where you end up filling your plastic Mac bag with free mouse pads and geek shirts, at Book Expo, you get books. Mystery books. Picture books. Biographical books. Comic books. Literary books. Reference books. Most importantly: Free books.
Unfortunately, in order to haul nearly a zillion pounds of heavy books back home, we had to take our gas-guzzling VW camper and drive the long and winding road. We were barely out of the driveway before we turned into the Bickersons. No subject was too small to argue about—where to stop for gas, what to eat for dinner, when to change drivers, why we didn’t fly.
Luckily, bickering helps the time fly by, and we found ourselves in freeway-congested LA in less than six hours. After bickering about what time to head for the convention center, we joined the “feeding frenzy” of other book lovers when the doors opened at 9:00 am. By 9:15 we’d filled four book bags each. By the time the show closed, we’d managed to score over 200 books, including such coveted titles as Too Many Toys (a cautionary tale for kids), Don’ts for Husbands (hope it include a chapter on bickering), Staging Your Comeback (I could use “The Complete Beauty Revival for Women After 45”), I Heart Geeks (who doesn’t?), The Dorm Room Diet Planner (too late?), Cornbread Nation (hopefully a cookbook) and Know Your Bowels (no comment), with the occasional Anita Shreve and James Patterson thrown in. And that didn’t include the non-book freebies—a lip balm, squeeze ball, beanie, and romance novel cover model calendar.
Only a book fanatic would have done what we did—drive to LA and pick up pounds of books we’d never heard of—all for a car-full of printed paper. We’ll never be able to read all of these books, let alone give them away to our friends—we don’t have that many friends. We could have saved a lot of money—and bickering—if we’d skipped the trip and just bought the books we really wanted at the local bookstore.
But there’s something about Book Expo that even mellows the Bickersons. When you end up with billions of books to read, like Zombie CSU (Forensics for the Living Dead), The Official Filthy Rich Handbook (How the other .0001% live), and Find Your Inner Ugly Betty (Career Lessons Inspired by TV Shows), who’s got time to bicker?

noreply@blogger.com (Penny) — Fri, 09 May 2008 20:58:00 +0000

iGot an iPhone. iCouldn’t help myself. The moment iSaw the iPhone iHad to have iT.

That’s unusual for me, because I’m slow to warm up to new technology. I like to wait and see if a new product is really going to last before I commit a few hundred or thousand dollars. Still, I have to keep up with change in this fast-paced Valley.

Remember cassette tapes? I thought they’d never replace record albums. Now I can’t buy a turntable to play my valuable LP collection. Same with CDs. I thought they were too expensive—and too weird—to replace cassette tapes. Now they’re becoming a thing of the past, what with iTunes, iPods and iStreams taking over the airways.

I was slow to get an iPod, certain this new gizmo was just a flash in the technological pan. No doubt it would soon be replaced by some kind of implant in the brain, where a music fan could press her temple to turn on the sound and blink a number of times to find her favorite song, all while driving, eating, or sleeping—hands free.

But my kids got me an iPod for Christmas a few years ago, tired of seeing my boom box. It took me six months to figure out how to use it, but I came to love being able to harvest my own eclectic collection of songs, like Joan Jett’s “Bad Reputation,” Edith Piaf’s “Je Regret Rien,” Rocky Horror’s “The Time Warp,” and the themes from “Murder She Wrote,” “Inspector Gadget” and “The Sopranos.” Of course, the minute I’d loaded up every song I ever loved, my iPod crashed and I lost the whole collection. (Backup? What do you mean, “backup?”)

In mourning, I gave up listening to music for awhile, until I discovered the XM channels on my TV cable. I spent hours flipping the dial (do they still use that word?) back and forth between ‘40s swing, ‘80s new wave, and today’s techno/house/dance. Then someone told me about “streaming,” and I began to download music from my favorite stations so I could listen while I worked on the computer. (Don’t get me started on Pandora…)

But then came the iPhone, which had it all—phone, email, Internet, YouTube, camera, weather, calendar, and most importantly, music. I’d been happy with my Blackberry up to that point, but when my daughter-in-law got her iPhone—sleek, smooth, colorful, and fun to use—I knew I had to have one.Naturally it took me weeks to learn just how to turn it on, let alone program phone numbers, add iTunes, and download my own personal ring tone (the theme from “Halloween.”) Now, when someone calls, I can see a face on the screen and ignore the call if I want to. I’m still learning how to use the camera (have some nice shots of the inside of my purse), but I know the weather in Denver, how to find the closest Starbucks in any city, and what’s “most viewed” on YouTube (Sarah Silverman and Jimmy Kimmel’s “Odes” to Matt Damon and Ben Affleck). I can even find out what’s new with Britney on Yahoo Entertainment.

Now all I have to do is figure out what “Bluetooth” means.Living in today’s high-tech world is a challenge for someone who grew up on typewriters, Princess phones, and transistor radios. But no matter what comes next, I know this: iWant it.

The Glamorous Booksigning Life

noreply@blogger.com (Penny) — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 23:11:00 +0000

Ah, the glamorous life of a writer. I’m “on tour” with my latest book, which means I’m signing at some bookstores, “chatting” on a few weblogs, speaking at a handful of writers’ conferences, and spending all my advance money making cute little bookmarks as bribes for potential readers.

If you haven’t done a book signing recently, here’s how they typically go: You cold-call booksellers, ask if they’ll host a signing for your upcoming “bestseller,” and show up at the appointed time to sign autographs for your adoring fans. At least, that’s the idea. Here’s what really happens: You email the booksellers asking for a signing because there’s not enough alcohol in Danville to provide the courage you need to actually speak to them, certain they will laugh in your face at this ludicrous idea.

When a bookseller surprises you by asking when you’d like to come in for an event, you blurt out a date, which has already been booked by JD Salinger or JK Rowling. He counters with only date he has left this year and you gratefully accept, only later realizing that it’s the same time as the Super Bowl, the last episode of Gray’s Anatomy, or Christmas.

You send out handcrafted invitations to 200 of your closest friends, including the grocery clerk, the five-year-old boy next door, and the new neighbors you haven’t even met yet. You email the rest of your fans, creating an eye-catching flyer that doesn’t convert on anyone else’s computer and reads: “*^$&((%##& *&$^#*&^($($*(!”

You bribe your future readers to the event by promising them an all-you-can-eat dessert buffet and free bookmarks, then search the knock-off stores for a “literary outfit” that makes you look like JK Rowling. You realize after you purchase it you look more like Lady Voldemort so you change into a T-shirt featuring an ironed-on copy of your book cover, pull on a pair of black jeans to hide your less-than-literary fat, and skip the fake glasses.

When it’s “book-signing time,” you arrive at the bookstore to stage your themed display. You find yourself at the kiddy-sized table in the back, next to the Books That Never Sell. You sit down and try to look busy by constantly rearranging your book stack, while shoppers give you a wide berth and never make eye contact. Finally someone approaches your table, smiles, and you get your Mont Blanc pen ready to sign a heartfelt passage, personalized to the reader. That’s when she asks you where the restrooms are located and you point with your outrageously expensive pen.

Suddenly you’re flooded with table-visitors, all asking questions like, “Do you have any books on bird-watching?” “Have I ever heard of you?” and “What’s Sue Grafton really like?” Between “customers” you browse the bookstore shelves and end up buying more books than you sell. You wonder why you bother to write books that nobody reads, and ask the bookseller if he needs any part-time help, since it’s time you got a “real job.”

Just as you’re packing up, someone approaches and asks if your latest book is out. You smile proudly, point to the stack of unsold books on the table, and give her your well-practiced pitch: “It’s a kind of Gone with the Wind meets ‘King Kong’ set in Fresno, featuring a love story between a feisty former nun and a muscle-bound rodeo clown, who overcome a nuclear war, barely escape death by quicksand, and achieve happiness as Telemarketers.” She puts your book down, says she only reads chick-lit cookbooks, and heads for the free snacks.

Hey, don’t feel sorry for me. I love every minute of it. Try to come to my next signing. There will be free snacks...

Danville vs. Seattle

noreply@blogger.com (Penny) — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 05:32:00 +0000

Life is slow in Danville this summer. At least for me. At least compared to life at Seattle Grace. Seems like all I’ve been doing is watching videos of old TV shows. Like “Grey’s Anatomy.”

I’m not usually a big TV watcher (yeah, sure), but I often have it on for white noise while I work. Now that the kids are gone, I need it to replace all their screaming and fighting. Helps me concentrate.Sure, sometimes I watch a few intellectually challenging shows. Like “So You Think You Can Dance” (ask me anything about Paso Doble). But the main reason I don’t get attached to shows is simple: They get cancelled.

“Studio 60” with Matthew Perry and Bradley Whitford? I loved that show. Now it’s gone. Remember “Surface,” the one about aliens coming to town (or was it “Invasion?”) Anyway, they were both cancelled. This year I got hooked on “Jericho,” where Johnny Depp-look-alike, Skeet Ulrich, tries to save his town after bombs destroy the rest of the country. Cancelled. At least until a bunch of fans sent nuts to the network as a form of protest. (Not me. Cashews are expensive.)

If you ever want a show to go off the air, ask me to watch it. The shows that get renewed are the ones I miss. “American Idol?” I can’t tell Kelly Clarkman (sic) from Simon Cowbell (sic). I missed the boat on “The Office” too. Every week over Family Sunday Dinner my kids discussed the latest episode, while I tried to chat about “Knights of Prosperity” (cancelled).

Desperate to be included, I finally joined “The Office” midseason. Now I have a crush on Dwight Schrute. (Where can I get one of his bobbleheads?)“CSI”? Missed it. “My Name is Earl”? Nope. “Lost”? Too much like “Gilligan’s Island.” But the worst mistake of all was my hunch that “Grey’s Anatomy” was just another “E.R.”/”Scrubs”/”House” (another hit show I managed to miss) with a bunch of angst-ridden interns who accidentally kill innocent patients. One episode was enough to give me an undiagnosed illness.

With summer slowing to a crawl and nothing new on TV (aside from Dr. Phil: “Your Lesbian Grandmother is Sleeping with Your Terrorist Boyfriend – and YOU DON’T CARE!”), I broke down and rented the first two seasons of “Grey’s Anatomy.” OMG, I’m totally hooked. Seriously. Meredith, Christina, Izzy and George are like my new best friends. McDreamy is well, dreamy. And I even like Bailey and Burke.

I want to move to Seattle, go to med school, and hold a live bomb inside a chest cavity so it doesn’t blow up – until the cute bomb squad guy shows up. I want to discuss the relationships between Meredith and Derrick, Meredith and George, George and Callie, George and Alex (whoops), and Meredith and all the men in Seattle.

But once again I’m lagging. Everyone else has moved on. They’re all watching something called “Ugly Betty.”Oh well, wait until the new season begins. I’ll be on top of the best shows this year. Can’t wait to try “Farmer Wants a Wife” (a group of city girls move to the country to compete for the heart of one farmer), “Kitchen Nightmares” (hot tempered Hell’s Kitchen chef goes on the road to help restaurants in crisis), and “Lady or a Tramp” (a group of rude and crude party girls are sent to charm school to learn how to behave like ladies.) Plus that show based on those Geico cavemen.

I may live in Danville, but thanks to my TV, I can go to Seattle Grace, Wisteria Lane, and what’s left of Jericho any time I want.

Tahoe Vacation

noreply@blogger.com (Penny) — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 05:23:00 +0000

I spent New Year’s Eve in Lake Tahoe, along with most of the population of Danville and perhaps the rest of Northern California. If you’ve ever been up there during the holidays, you know how crowded it gets. And how cold. And how far, far away from home it is. For me, these are all issues I had to deal with, since I have a touch of Enochlophobia (fear of crowds), Frigophobia (fear of cold), and Agoraphobia (fear of leaving a safe place).

It seemed like a good idea at the time—that being after a couple of glasses of wine. We felt lucky to book a “rustic cottage” along the north shore, practically the only accommodations available during the New Year’s weekend rush hour. We should have known that the “cottage” would be smaller than a walk-in closet and more “rustic” than the homemade playhouse in our backyard. That was also an issue for me, since I also have a touch of Claustrophobia (fear of small spaces) and Ataxophobia (fear of rustic places). At that point, all I needed were a couple of clowns, (Coulrophobia), a big fat spider (Arachnophobia) and a dead squirrel (Necrophobia), and I’d have had to relocate to the nearby hospital (which also would have been an issue since I have a touch of Nosocomephobia.)

While I may be exaggerating a little about the phobias, I’m not exaggerating about the size of the cottage. The double bed filled the room, leaving little space for the shower stall, which was the size of a cupboard. It could only fit either a human being or a bottle of shampoo—not both. Didn’t matter. I couldn’t raise my arms above my shoulders to wash my hair in the tight space. The thermostat offered two settings: freezing or roasting.

As for the rustic amenities, there was one overhead light with 10-watt bulb, one bedside lamp with a five-watt bulb for reading, and a TV that mostly featured reruns of “Law and Order: Year One” and “The Pelican Brief” in Spanish. The self-labeled “resort” promised Internet service, but the connection kept shutting off in the middle of my search for various phobia spellings.

While most people were in Tahoe to ski, snowboard, and snowmobile, we came to celebrate a relative’s milestone birthday and watch our grandson’s first experience in real snow. However, like his grandmother, Bradley seemed to have Chionophobia (fear of snow). He didn’t care for all that white, cold stuff. Nor did he didn’t care for the snow boots, mittens, or padded snowsuits. And he especially didn’t want to slide on a slippery saucer. Maybe he got a heads up when I did the splits in my pink Uggs the first time I stepped on the snow.

My mini-vacation to the snow went downhill, so to speak, from there. Finally we packed up our suitcases, checked the “Beat the traffic” site for the best route home, set the GPS to “Danville,” and took off, leaving friends, relatives, and Northern California’s most beautiful natural resource behind.

Still, I was glad to come home, even to burst solar panels, a flooded backyard, and a raccoon break-in (they ate all my Christmas chocolates!) Best of all, my phobias are cured! Except for Oeno-rusti-cotta-chiono-phobia (fear of drinking wine and then booking a rustic cottage in the snow), of course.

Retirement Dreams

noreply@blogger.com (Penny) — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 05:16:00 +0000

I don’t know how you retired people manage. My husband has been out of work for a couple of days, due to the weather, and I’ve already asked him to find his own apartment.

How did it come to this? I remember, as a young bride, resenting the fact that he had to go to work every day and we couldn’t be together 24/7. Funny what 37 ½ years of marriage does to a couple.

The first day home, after reading everything in the morning paper from the front page dateline to the last Frys ad, he hovered over my shoulder as I worked on my column and asked the classic question, “Whatcha doin'?” Odd, since he’s never been particularly interested in my writing. That’s how bored he was. I suggested he finish one of the projects he’d abandoned over the past two decades, such as changing a light bulb, figuring he should keep up his skills, since he’s an electrician. Or maybe he could clean out his closet and get rid of worn-out T-shirts that read, “Impeach Nixon” and “First Annual Devil Mountain Run.” Or how about getting that condemned backyard playhouse up to code before our grandson hired a personal injury attorney.

Moments after I began listing all the things we need to have done around here, he switched on the TV and surfed nearly 200 channels until he found a must-see show on the History Channel called, “Modern Marvels: Distilleries.” Then, over a beer, he got out a bunch of fake paperwork he found in his closet, spread it all over the kitchen table, and occasionally ruffled a paper when I turn to check on him.

When I called his bluff and asked him what he was “working” on, he gave his standard answer: “Taxes.” He always says “taxes” when he wants to stop a conversation. He knows that if I say anything more, he’ll give his usual speech: “Well, if you didn’t spend so much money, we wouldn’t have any taxes.” Inevitably, it’s all my fault.

After more shuffling of papers, he soon had several mountains of receipts, checks, and bills strewn about the table, barely leaving enough room for his three TV remotes, his beer, and the leftover Halloween candy. I suggested that, instead of keeping his tax materials in a plastic Target bag, he enter them into the computer like other people so the entire process is easier at tax time. He said he couldn’t find the TurboTax program I bought him last year or the Quicken program I got him this year but he planned to find them soon and get organized.

Unable to take any more of this, I headed out to pick up a DVC schedule, hoping he might sign up for a mini-class like “What To Do With Your Life When You’re Out of Work For a Few Days” or “How to Keep From Annoying Your Wife When You’re Home All Day.” When I returned, I found him lying on the couch killing robots with lightning bolts, racking up the top score against a bunch of nine-year-old competitors.

At that point I sat back down at my computer to finish my column, which would practically be the sole support of the family until his work picked up again, and wondered what I was going to write about next week, after I’d murdered him with one of his own Xbox cords. I do hate to lose a good source of material.

All the World's a Playground

noreply@blogger.com (Penny) — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 05:11:00 +0000

Was it Shakespeare who once said, “All the world’s a playground…” Or maybe I’m thinking of the parody quote by Weird Al Yankovich. Anyway, whoever said it, it’s a spot-on metaphor for our little world of Danville—when you’re three years old.

No matter where you go or what you do, when you’re three, everything is a playground. Take going out to dinner, for example. Before we had kids, eating in a restaurant in Danville was a simple pastime for us. We’d slip into designer chairs at our favorite haunt, order a couple of glasses of Spanish wine, peruse the tempting menu, and settle into pithy conversations about credit card debt.

When we had kids, we tried to continue the weekly ritual, but when our three-year-old son Matt learned how to arch his back and slip out of the high chair, we pretty much stuck to pizza parlors and fast-food restaurants from then on.

It wasn’t until the kids moved out that we were able to return to restaurants that didn’t have video games along the back wall and plastic menus that came with a side of crayons. Lately we’ve been meeting our extended family—including our two young grandsons—at local restaurants. My husband Tom and I go early to secure a table for the growing numbers, but once we mention we’ll need a highchair, we’re seated in a dark back corner.

While we wait for the others, we order a bottle of economical Chianti, (supersize it, please), and try to drink as much as possible before the troops pull in. When the rest of the gang finally arrives (Luke had to finish his nap, Bradley had to finish his Wii game), we attempt to seat the three year old in the high chair, but Bradley prefers a real chair now, so the high chair turns into a catchall for purses, toys, blankets, diaper bags, and already-been-chewed bread.

The restaurant quickly becomes a playground for Bradley, who prefers bouncing on the seat, crawling under the table, and running out to watch the chefs prepare the meal than sitting, chatting, or waiting for the food to arrive. I don’t blame him. There’s just so much to do in a restaurant when you’re three besides eat. When the food arrives, we order another bottle of wine and chug it down while we swallow our food whole. During dinner Bradley plays with his mother’s iPhone (which he operates better than most adults), eats the tops off all the garlic bread slices, and entertains us with his musical repertoire—the theme from Pirates of the Caribbean, the Hamster Dance, and a couple of songs he made up.

When the check arrives, we all take a deep breath and wait for indigestion to settle in while Bradley plays a drum solo on the empty plates using his silverware, stacks the sugar packets into a tower, and waves in collusion to a kid at the next tableLike I said—and perhaps Shakespeare before me—“All the world’s a playground…” if you’re a kid. Unfortunately, if you’re an adult, you only get to watch.

A Good Night's Sleep

noreply@blogger.com (Penny) — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 05:05:00 +0000

I have a feeling my husband and I were the last people on the planet still sleeping in a waterbed into the 21st century (except Berkeley residents, of course.) Tom and I got married at the end of the 60s, and as poser Hippies, we were only into the things that made us look hip. We wore bellbottoms, hung Madras sheets on the wall, and were the first on our block—perhaps town—to buy a waterbed. Our friends used to come over to marvel at this brave new sleeping product, while our parents just shook their heads, made “What if it pops?” jokes, and gave the whole hippie-water-bed-thing six months. Not ones to give up on a fad too quickly, we were still sleeping on that floatation device nearly 38 years later.

For those who had one, you know: a waterbed is comfortable, warm, and the kids love to roll around on it. But with three cats, we knew the bed wouldn’t last forever. After patching the same hole half a dozen times with half a dozen types of tape and glue, we had to accept the fact that the waterbed was sinking fast. Now what? Would we get another waterbed—did they even make them anymore? Or would we finally conform and go with a “normal” mattress? The last time we checked—38 years ago—mattresses only went for a few hundred dollars, so we decided to check out what was new in bedding, and see if there was anything remotely comfortable that we could sleep on for the next 38 years.

With a list of the “discount mattress” stores in hand, we headed for the closest one. I hadn’t seen so many mattresses since summer camp—and they all looked alike. I mean, a bed is a bed. What would we judge it on? The pretty swirls sewn onto the top of the mattress? How high off the ground it was? What color of white would look best under all of our colorful sheets and blankets? The salesman moseyed over, sensing we were wicked-smart buyers who didn’t fall for the first pitch we heard. After a brief, over-my-head explanation of the various types of coils, springs, and stuffing stuff, we told him our needs: Tom wanted firm, I wanted soft. That would shake him up a bit, Mr. Smooth Salesman.

“Lie down,” he said, indicating a bed nearby. We did as he instructed. “What do you think?” he said. “It’s fine,” I replied, keeping my poker face. After all, it was just a bed. I’d be asleep most of the time while using it so what did it really matter? “Now try this one,” he said. We did.

OMG. It was the perfect ratio of hard-to-soft to please both of us. I felt like I was lying on cotton candy stuffed with marshmallows on top of puffy clouds. I didn’t know lying down could feel this good. We looked at each other and said, “We’ll take it.” And then we spotted the pricetag. The one we wanted “started” at three grand!Feeling as if a cloud had been pulled out from under my feet, I wondered what had happened to the cost of sleeping in the past 38 years. Did Hillary Clinton have plans in her national budget to do something about it if she became President?

After the salesman whispered his final offer of a “manager’s-special, deep-discount, today-only, sale price,” we bought the bed. Plus new sheets, blankets, comforter, skirt, and matching throw pillows. We hope to get a good night’s sleep soon. It’s not a leaky waterbed that’s keeping us up at night—it’s that outstanding bill we owe the mattress people.

Scrap Happy

noreply@blogger.com (Penny) — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 21:20:00 +0000

My daughter-in-law Sue is a “cropper.” If you don’t know what a cropper is, you aren’t one of the 25 million people in the United States who scrapbook. And I’m pretty sure all 25 million attended the Scrapbook Expo at the Pleasanton Fairgrounds last weekend. Make that 25 million and one. I was there too.

My latest hobby, scrapbooking, is not a whim like my other hobbies—collecting Italian Charms, crocheting mufflers, or raising children. According to statistics, “scrapping” is the fastest growing hobby in America, second only to collecting knock-off purses. The average “cropper” now spends hundreds of hours working on scrapbooks instead of making dinner or cleaning house. And she spends nearly $2,000 a year in tools and supplies. That’s a drop in the bucket compared to what she once spent for shoes.

The most popular themes for scrapbooks are cats, with dogs a close second. For your cat scrapbook you’ll need cat decorated paper, cat paw stampers, cat catch phrases like “My Cat Can Whoop Your Dog’s Butt,” and hundreds of candid shots of your cat’s daily life—mostly sleeping or licking herself. Other popular themes include “My Vacation, “My Wedding,” “My Honeymoon,” and “My First Baby,” (second babies have a scrapbook but there’s nothing in it, and third babies don’t even get the book.) After those basics, croppers really have to brainstorm to come up with other themes to continue their habit—“My Trip to the Grocery Store,” “My Grandson’s New Potty,” and “My Husband’s Favorite TV Shows.”

If you’d like to join me in my new hobby, just clear out one of your bedrooms (move all your kids into one room), and set up your Crop Shop. Then fill every nook and cranny with organizers of all sizes to hold your crop crap. At the Expo, I found tons of goodies to help “enable” my “addiction”—“antique” ink to “distress” paper, stampers featuring everything from animals to things that start with the letter Z, hole punches that make hearts, stars, even dog bones, and stencils featuring every holiday from Christmas and Halloween to Groundhog and Boxing Day. My favorites are the phrase books with quotes like, “Been there, done that, scrapped a page about it,” “Don’t Worry, Be Scrappy,” “Born to Crop, Not Mop!” and “Nothing Stops a Cropper, Not Even a Paper Cut.”

Sue came home from the Expo with armloads of her incredible creations. She can scrap anything from a cardboard box to a paper bag, and turn it into a work of art. I’ve tried to copy her designs, but I usually end up with antiqued fingertips, stickers stuck to my clothes, and a scrapbook that looks like my three-year-old grandson’s artwork.

I asked Sue how she and her friend Robyn Frendberg became addicted to scrapbooking. Sue said, “I started scrapbooking when my son Brad was born. (No, he was not named after the scrapbooking embellishments called “brads.”) I was passionate about preserving his memories, and I needed that creative outlet as a stay-at-home mom. Some people have a perception that scrapping is frivolous, but for me it’s an art form.”

“I tried scrapbooking several years ago,” Robyn added, “but I never really had time for it. Then when my son was born three years ago, I pulled out my supplies. I have thousands of pictures of Josh, who changes nearly every day, and I’m motivated to scrapbook his adventures. And after chasing a preschooler around all day, I find scrapbooking therapeutic.”

I could go on about my new passion, but I’ve already broken a basic cropping code: “What Happens at Crop, Stays at Crop!”