E G A D S! Egos in romance

I can't stand people who constantly brag about themselves. Especially authors. Sitting next to them at conferences, conventions or at parties is like being trapped in an oxygen-deprived environment.

When I'm around them and they start spewing allocades about themselves, I secretly call it "mouth farting." Because it's loud, it stinks and everyone's trying to be polite, not saying anything but we all know it's quite crude.

There's nothing wrong with sharing stories of success. There's lots of reasons for romance authors to talk about it, what worked for them, etc. I love it when successful authors share the secrets of their success. And I delight in hearing good news, especially in these tough times of publishing.

What gets my goatskin is when authors DO NOTHING but brag about themselves. They don't ask you how you are. They don't even pretend interest in anything other than themselves.

The conversation (monologue) starts off like this, "My last book, WHIP A WILD MONKEY MAN, just made the Poughkeepsie Press's best selling list! My editor now wants me to write 10,000 new books, and gosh, I don't know how I can get it done between our vacation in Europe and my hair appointment and getting my nose hairs clipped for that important meeting with my agent and Tom Cruise, who's starring in the movie version of my last book, you know, I'm sure you read it, my contemporary romantic suspense comedy paranormal about a vampire who works for a major NY fashion magazine and is really a time traveling Regency dandy who got lost in the space time continuum and lost his memory along the way. Oh, and pass the butter, please."

A friend of mine and I worked out this great secret arrangment to get us through moments like this. Moments when we are trapped in parties where the egomanical authors start sucking out all the air from the room. We look at said author brightly and chirp, "That sounds GREAT!"

Said sentence is doled out with cheery enthusiasm.

Said sentence in code can mean a number of things, depending upon the person. It can mean, "You're a boring ass." Or, "I'd rather read bicycle assembly instructions in Chinese than listen to you." Or, "Did you know you have toilet paper stuck to your shoe bottom?"

Some of the most successful authors I've met are the nicest, most friendly and sometimes shy. They're real people. They have lives outside their careers. And when I say to them, "That sounds GREAT" there's no code words involved. Except for maybe, "You're a wonderful person and a great writer. And in my book, that's a pretty fantastic package."

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Haiti travel warnings

Damn.

Leaving Monday for Haiti and the US state department just issued this new travel warning: (from their web site)

"Americans are reminded of the potential for spontaneous demonstrations and violent confrontations between armed groups. Visitors and residents must remain vigilant due to the absence of an effective police force in much of Haiti (HA! WHAT police force???) ; the potential for looting; the presence of intermittent roadblocks set by armed gangs or by the police; and the possibility of random violent crime, including kidnapping, car-jacking, and assault. Travel can be hazardous within Port-au-Prince. The embassy has limited travel by its staff outside of Port-au-Prince and the ability to provide emergency services to U.S. citizens outside of Port-Au-Prince remains extremely limited. "

Translation: You're on your own, kiddies.

Sigh... at any rate, far as I know, we are still going. It's not going to be a trip to Disney, that's for sure.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

I love romance!

Sigh... being sentimental here. I'm watching SABRINA, the 1995 version with Harrison Ford. double sigh... it's such a romantic film, the shy lower class daughter who adores the playboy rich son... how she goes to Paris and becomes stylish and a woman who has a sense of self... and Harrison Ford's character, Linus, who doesn't want to love. He DOES NOT want to love her...

and yet he does...

Sigh... Yeah, I'm sentimental. I love this line that Linus says, "But I need her and I don't need anything."

BUT I NEED her and I DON'T need anything.

Wow.

sniff sniff sniff...

This is why I love reading/writing romance novels. Call me a throwback to the Sixties and the Love Generation, but I adore sappy, sentimental books and movies.

Then again, there IS my deep fondness for all those Friday the 13th teen slasher flicks...

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Peep Haiku

Yellow sponge of fluff
Expanding largely
In silence, I watch you grow.

See the innocent sugar chick
Beady eyes watching
Itself puff and now explode.

Easter peep, you are mine
Helplessly trapped,
Ding goes the microwave

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Bring out your dead

There’s a dead body lying on the street in Bel Air. A young man, who died in last week’s violence during the march to protest Aristide’s departure. No one wants to touch it. The Brazilian UN guys patrolling the area say the police need to pick it up. The police haven’t hauled it away. No one’s claiming it. Residents in the slums don’t want to touch it, fearing the chimeres (pro-Aristide gang members) will go after them as well.

So this poor dude, bare-chested, bullet-riddled, is lying face down in the midst of a trash heap on the street, flies buzzing about him, rotting away. While life goes on around him as normal. Peddlers hawking bits of fried plantains to eat, charcoal to sell, bottled water. Men playing dominos. Children trudging to school.

I can picture it, so surreal, and yet typical of Haiti. And my warped imagination is playing a twisted version of a scene from Monty Python. “Bring out your dead! Oh wait. Not THAT dead. We only want the safe dead. Bring out your Politically Correct Dead!”

I hope the body is gone by now. I hope it’s gone by the time we arrive in Haiti next week.

In the meantime, I need a list of items to pack.

1) Bullet-proof vest
2) Steel helmet
3) Notebooks and writing instruments
4) Romance novels to read on the road while driving by dead bodies in the street.

Tut Tut Tut

I almost wish they hadn't found out Tut wasn't murdered. I love mysteries. I love using mysteries for stories. And now they say someone didn't do in the boy king. BUT... it was only a CAT scan... hmmm... what about poison? What if someone DELIBERATELY broke his leg and allowed infection to set in, instead of the embalmers doing it, as Zahi Hawass suggests? Ah yessssssss.... there still lurks within in the lurid mind of this writer the possiblities...

http://www,bonnievanak.com

Tut tut tut. Darn! They did a CT scan on King Tut and found out the boy king hadn't been murdered after all. My man, Zahi Hawass, said the king's leg was broken, and possibly infection set in.
 

A new secret weapon?

Real life is far more odd than fiction… Just read that a former stripper sold one of her boobs on e-Bay. Well, not her actual breast, it was her silicone implant. Sold it to the same casino company that bought the Virgin Mary cheese sandwich.

Said boob sold for more than $16,000. Sheesh. Said boob is purportedly a size 69 HH before the implants were surgically removed.

Said stripper was also once accused of beating up a customer with her big breasts. Whoa. Awk, the visuals… The customer said he suffered “whiplash” when she pointed her big bazookas at his face. He claimed they were like “cement blocks.”

Wham bam, slam, damn!

The mind reels… What if… the Pentagon got hold of this? I mean, these boobs could be a new secret weapon. Imagine parachuting strippers with 69 HH boobs into enemy territory. Navy SEALS, yeah, they’re tough, but how could they stack up (pardon the pun) against a pair of 69 HH boobs? Air drop the strippers with their 69 HH boobs and have them just beat the enemy with their breasts. Slap slap slap. Said enemy would die of broken necks, but die with big smiles.

And what would the Pentagon call this new secret weapon? Hmmm, how about…

Booby traps?

I'm in the mood for Halloween. Jack o the lantern anyone? ;-) 

Where the violence is

So I'm trying to explain Haiti to someone who's never been there and was asking about visiting Cite Soleil. The poverty is there. We need to go where the poverty is.

Yes, but the violence is there as well. You can't help the poor if you are dead.

I realized then how very aged I feel after doing this kind of work for more than 11 years. Eleven years of visiting slums, helping the poor, seeing gut-wrenching suffering. I'm jaded and cynical, and trying to explain poverty/politics/etc. to someone who's never visited a country like Haiti is challenging. Because where do I start?
On this trip we'll be visiting a hospital where most of the doctors left because they weren't paid their $171 monthly salary for months; there is no medicine, no supplies like sterile gloves, no blankets for the beds, a baby died because the hospital had no oxygen and the patients pray and moan and weep in their beds because there is little the remaining medical staff can do, and sometimes they just die.

It's not a nice place to visit. C told us, "I hate you. That place is awful. Why are you making me go there?"

I told her, "Because that's our job. I know you hate us. Because we always drag you to the icky places."

And that is our job. Visiting the icky places. Seeing the worst of the worst and trying to frame it in heartwrenching photos and stories so we can raise money and make those places not quite so icky.

No wonder I write romance novels. I honestly doubt that the worst thing I can write about, the darkest moments of the human soul and there are plenty of those in Rashid's story, will never match what I've witnessed in real life.
http://www.bonnievanak.com

Long live romance novels. Sounds weird to say it, but hell, those HEA moments keep me balanced. Because in real life, the HEA doesn't always happen. Especially in Haiti.

Haiti definitely a go

Well, in two weeks I'll be in Haiti. Trying this again. Hopefully, this time we will make it further than the airport. Violence sprung up in the slums again this week, but I expected as much due to the anniversary of Artistide's departure. We'll be spending one night in the city and then traveling north.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

human again

finally.

not sick. well, at least not physically. no telling what state the mental part is in...

worked more on rashid's story. he makes me cry. i love this guy. jillian has really come along in her character growth. my characters are so real to me. feels that way anyway.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

C'mere honey, gimme a lip lock and all your GERMS

I love my husband.

I really, truly do. He's my best friend, my partner in life. We share everything. Including sickness.

Okay, so he didn't know he was sick last week and I do like how he kisses...mmmmm.

And then he came down with a walloping case of brochitis. Of course he passed it onto me. Four days later and he's feeling perky, fine, great.

I'm still sick. My chest feels like an elephant is sitting on it. You may ask, "Why Bonnie, how do you know? Has an elephant ever sat on your chest?"

No, but one time an elephant squeezed DH's butt at a circus. But, that's another story...

I haven't been this sick in months and months. And the antibiotics aren't doing their job. Fever and chills all weekend. I'm coughing like a TB victim. Right now there's a polka band and 1,000 Polish dancers stomping in my head. They're playing a really bad tune as well and singing off key.

Maybe tomorrow I'll feel better. Right now I'd like to curl up under the covers and pass out.

Of course my animals always sense when I'm sick.

This is why I've had four hours of sleep in the past three days, well, also including the wheezing and coughing that kept me up. But every time I'd start to drift off to sleep, the female dog, Tia, would snore. A real window rattler. Then Tiger, the male, would decide, "Hey LETSGOOUTSIDEAGAIN. IWANTTOPEEONABUSHAGAIN."

At 11 p.m. 2 a.m. and 4 a.m.

By 7 am. the bird was whistling "Dixie" and then vocalizing because, "HEY WHERE IS MY BREAKFAST YOU LAZY FART FACES! GET UP AND FEED ME NOW!"

Sigh... I sure hope I feel better tomorrow.

Haiti, again

Looks like I’ll be heading back to Haiti next month. Try, anyway. Memories of the last trip, in which we drove no more than 1,000 yards to the departure terminal at the airport, are still fresh. Visiting Haiti these days is like spinning a roulette wheel. You just take your chances. Right now everything is quiet, as long as we avoid the slums. UN troops have been sweeping through there, engaging rebels. Lots of gunfire, tanks, the usual stuff.

There’s about 1,000 US troops from the Army and Navy as well in Gonaives. They’re on a three month mission to rebuild schools and provide medical care. Nice to hear our military is on a humanitarian mission. And the effort, boy is it needed. The bishop there is saying how terrible conditions are. Really, really awful still. And people seem to have forgotten about Haiti in light of the horrific tsunami disaster in Asia. Everyone is jumping on the fundraising bandwagon to help tsunami victims. Which is great, but I’m a cynic. Rock concerts, books written and their proceeds going to help victims, the intentions are wonderful.

But will the aid truly go to where it’s needed? And do most people understand how long and difficult the road to recovery is?

I’ve seen disasters, many of them, in the 11 years I’ve covered poverty in this hemisphere. Hurricane Mitch in Honduras and Nicaragua, killing thousands. Earthquakes in El Salvador. Floods. Fires. You name it. The media coverage gets everyone’s sympathies charging to the forefront. People are generous. And then the attention dies down, and they forget. They go on with their daily lives.

I only truly learned the enormous scope of how damn long it takes to recover when I visited Grenada about seven years ago. Interviewed families living in these 6’ x 6’ wood shacks supported only by the termites holding hands. They were called “Janet houses.” Government built temporary houses after Hurricane Janet swept through Grenada on Sept. 12, 1955. 500 people died.

1955. And these people were still huddling in these shacks built as “emergency” shelters. Since then another hurricane, Ivan, made a direct hit on that island. I seriously doubt the Janet houses made it through Ivan.

Roofies

Took the day off. Getting roof repaired. At last, when the next hurricane hits, there will be NEW roof shingles to blow off. Roofers found interesting assortment of pesky critters nesting in the rotting wood. Termites. Whoa boy. He said they're wet termites and will die if they are dry. Wet termites? Does that mean they like to party with Jack Daniels? Said termites damn better well be going on the wagon, because I don't relish waking up to having the fixed roof fall down on us as we sleep.

My dad died nine years ago today from heart failure. Was thinking about him as I did taxes to the tune of BANG BANG BANG overhead all day. Dead old Dad. I mean, Dear old Dad. He hated tax time. He'd sit at the very same kitchen table where I sat today and keep up a low grade hum like a generator, only it was a hum that had sentences like this, "&#@*&# taxes, IRS &#*@&#*@&, I can't &#*@#&@, MARIAN! Where the &#*@&#*@ is the &#*@#&@ receipt?"

I miss him. No one could swear up a storm like my dad. One can only hope there are no IRS auditors in heaven. At least one thing's for sure... you can't take it with you. I once tried telling that to a charity that kept sending letters asking for money, only they were addressed to dad. It was a pretty painful reminder he was gone (I had his mail forwarded to my house after he died to pay the medical bills). I kept asking them to take dad off the mailing list. Finally I wrote them a nice little letter like this:

Dear (name of charity),

They say you can't take it with you. They were right. I didn't. I'm dead. Please either take me off your mailing list or change my address to the Fountainhead Memorial Park, Plot XXOO. Sincerely, Harold Fischer..

It worked. Never heard from them again.

Does size matter?

Fark has an amusing article from Glen Aubrey, NY on how an “explicit snow sculpture” of very large male genitals had locals gasping. Six feet tall. Some laughed. Some complained to the sheriff. Said sculpture was removed the following day.

I wonder if the ones who complained felt inadequate.

Six feet, yeah, I would say that’s a little overdone. It reminds me of the very amusing scenario I encountered in Jamaica last year. In downtown Kingston, near a hotel where we stay, there is a park called Emancipation Park. They unveiled a bronze sculpture of a naked man and woman. They are facing each other. They are about 11 feet tall. The man’s equipment is displayed to the world and it is rather large equipment indeed.

When I remarked on this to one of my co-workers, she laughed. The penis size stirred a huge controversy in Jamaica. People complained the man’s genitals were “too big.” The sculptor who created the statue says she did not purposely enlarge that particular part and noted how the man has muscles in his torso and butt and the female is also well-endowed.

Of course no one’s complained about the breast size. Just the penis.

The sculpture is supposed to represent freedom from slavery, same reason why the park is named Emancipation Park. One jocular newspaper columnist called it “The emancipated penis.” He noted that simply because European statues have small ones, doesn’t mean Jamaica must. The Gleaner, the local paper had a column simply titled, “Jamaica Aroused.”

Ironically, there is ANOTHER sculpture of a nude couple, only they complained that man’s equipment was “too small.” If you’ve ever been to Jamaica and flown into Norman Manley airport, you’ll see it on the drive from the airport as the road hooks to the left on the way to Kingston.

Which brings to mind Goldilocks and the three bears. I could steal a line from Sex & the City and call her “Goldicocks,” but I won’t. Goldilocks and the three (what should I call it? Penis? Manhood? Purple warrior? How about Bronzed Male Part?) Bronzed Male Parts. One was too big. One was too small. Surely one could be “just right.”

I think they should remove the big guy and replace it with the smaller guy. Then have the classic Bob Marley lyrics underscored beneath the man’s smaller equipment: “We're coming in from the cold.”

Shrinkage. Solves everything.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

My dad, my first hero

I started a new story this week. It’s different from anything I’ve ever written and as I write it, I realize what is driving it. It’s a tribute to my dad, who died nine years ago next week. Dad was the first hero in my life.

He wasn’t the kind of obvious hero you’d read about in romance novels. In fact, my mother would have pointed out that he was a pain in the posterior. Her favorite saying, “You could drive the Mother of God up the walls!” That was often applied to dad.

He was a design engineer by trade, and for him the word “anal” was invented. Dad used to pour over his designs, waxing eloquently in engineering jargon that I could never comprehend. For me it was far easier to understand Klingon than Dad.

Dad wasn’t a hero you read about in papers, a guy who fought in WWII and stormed the beaches at Normandy or risked being downed by Japanese anti-aircraft fire as he soared over the skies. He wasn’t eligible to fight in the war. His brother, Don, was a fighter pilot. He got the medals and the praise. Dad stayed at home, courtesy of bad eyesight and having to take care of his family.

But he did his part. Dad designed parts that went into the airplanes that fought in the war. He was most proud of these designs. Dad worked for Grumman Aircraft Engineering. They built military aircraft and designed and built several U .S. Navy aircraft that had stellar reputations for aeronautical engineering.

In his spare time, he put together airplane models of the planes he had helped design. One of these sits now in a place of honor in my curio cabinet. I wish I knew what kind of plane it was. Somehow, now, 9 years after his death, it seems important to me.

Dad grew up in Jamaica, NY. His family was pretty well off until his father lost all in the great crash and the Depression set in. I remember Dad talking wistfully about how he always wanted to go to college, and never got the chance. He had to stay home and get a job to support his family. So dad worked running errands on Wall Street instead of going to college, and as he said, “You’d look up as you walked the street because in those days, there were always guys tossing themselves out of windows because things were so bad.”

He’d talk of poverty and how they’d make coal last in the winter by putting it in a can wrapped in newspaper to preserve the heat. He talked of stretching a dollar until it cried. There wasn’t any choice in those days.

But most of all, he talked of those Navy planes he’d helped design and how proud he was he did his bit for his country.

As I’m writing my new romance, which has for a hero a Navy SEAL, I’m thinking of the typical heroes who fight tough, who are known as the best combat specialists in the world, who have seen active duty combat. And my hero isn’t modeled after them, as courageous as they are. My hero is modeled after my dad. A guy who was kinda quiet, never really achieved his dreams, but was determined to make something of himself, despite all the obstacles. I never did know what planes he helped design, or what missions they flew. I was too busy and too impatient to be off doing my stuff.

I just wish I had listened closer all those years ago.

Bird brain

#@*#@^ bird. Yesterday I'm running amok, trying to get ready for work and hustling Tia out into the back yard. I step out onto the sunroom in my underwear and the bird lets loose this low, shrill wolf whistle. I just stared at him and said, "You know, you're a very rude bird."

He replied, "Yeah."

He could have a wide vocabulary and say much worse things. The imagination reels at such possibilities of what he could have said yesterday...

"Nice panties! Yard sale?"
"Whoa! Cover my cage, please! My eyes, oh, my eyes!"
"Are you losing weight? Your ass has shrunk."

Sigh... Maybe that's why I love my dogs so much. They give love. Affection. And they don't talk.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Musings

There’s a Zen sand garden on my desk with a miniature rake. A gift from a friend, it’s supposed to soothe my troubled spirit. Through raking the sand, I will find enlightenment, and peace.

I’m raking like crazy , as if the sand were a pile of dead autumn leaves. No smooth, serene tracks in the sand for this neurotic writer. Yup, I’m scraping and tossing sand, zigging and zagging. It may not lead to enlightenment, but it sure as hell makes me feel better seeing those crazy patterns in the sand, like the chaos of my life.

Amazing how much better being home with my hubby, my two doggies and plenty of rest will make me feel. My depression, which now I realize was partly physical (&#*@&#@* hormones!) is abated. I gave myself permission to read for pure enjoyment as I did in PPD (pre-published days). I devoured two books and felt sated, thank you very much. I slept, something I had not done all week in Honduras. And with much TLC by hubby and rest and a good movie, I was able to tilt my world back on its axis. And introspection, which can get quite maudlin and self-pitying, is sometimes best presented in a mirror image. Such as the movie we saw.

Sideways. (Spoiler alert) Quite funny, very entertaining but for me, the true revelation was the hangdog, bassett-hound English teacher hopeful author who was awaiting word from his agent on his first novel being accepted for publication. His words in the film, “I’m a thumbprint on a skyscraper” in regards to his writing, were brilliant. And I saw in this middle-aged, somewhat frumpy, fussy wine taster and melancholy writer, a glimpse of myself. Miles is anxious to get his novel published not just for the sake of seeing it in print, but to aspire to something greater than his mundane existence. Divorced, “Officially depressed,” he actually has a meltdown in a winery after he phones his agent and gets word that yet again, the novel has been rejected by a publisher. The agent, a female with a gentle, soothing tone tells him it’s not marketable.

Miles goes ballistic and drinks the chum others have tossed away into the spit bucket, spilling it all over his blue shirt. The dregs of what wasn’t good enough for others is what he feels he deserves. God only knows what is in that bucket of salvia-mixed chardonnays and merlots and pinots (maybe a secretly tossed Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill?). Later that night when DH and I were watching The Last Days of Pompei on the discovery channel, I learned about fulleries. These were the ancient Roman laundries that actually used human urine to get out stains from laundry (because of the acid). Slaves did the dirty work, stomping about in vats of urine to get those togas clean and bright and white again. And I thought of Miles again, left with the dregs of waste. Yeah, poor, angry Miles, probably feeling like someone’s piss boy when he gets the news of his novel being rejected and dumps the used wine all over himself, like some kind of dyslexic baptism. Instead of being made clean, he wallows in waste.

Watching Miles and his dour, mournful face was like peeking at myself in the mirror (well, without the beard and mustache and certainly without the high dome forehead and mournful brown eyes, plus he has no boobs, well, maybe, but mine are bigger). How many times have I been tempted to figuratively wallow in self-pity and drown myself when I get bad news? And life goes on. Yup. There always will be times when you hit the bottom of the wine barrel, but then there is, as Miles so aptly illustrated, that special bottle of ’61 Cheval Blanc.

It becomes a celebration when he opens it, in the most perfect setting, a fast food restaurant. While noshing on fried onion rings. And that little scene for me, more than the knock on the pretty waitress’s door at the film’s end, signified real hope in real life. If you keep all the good stuff bottled up and tucked away like a bottle of rare wine, it’s going to go to waste. It will peak and then slowly die, and lose its flavor. And eventually, turn to vinegar. So better to swallow the offerings in a greasy spoon than keep it bottled up, even if the only person appreciating its rare, excellent bouquet is yourself.

Who wants vinegar when they can have the rarified experience of a good bottle of wine? I see inside myself a plethora of stories like that bottle of ’61 Cheval Blanc, waiting to peak. And if I keep them bottled up, tucked away into a dark corner and never uncork them and let their effervescence bubble, and sample their bouquet, they’ll just sour and I’ll be the one turning to vinegar. I don’t want to be vinegar. I want to be wine. I want to make others happy with what I have to give, and give the best I’ve got to give at that moment. The bouquet is zesty, heady and bold, piquant on the palate, even sharp and a bit acid. Others might spit out, but if one or two people smack their lips and proclaim, “Wow!” then it’s all worth it. Even if the only person saying “Wow!” is me.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

I need a change of scenery...

To lift me out of this depression... hmmm...


Ah, I feel much better now.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

The lost chance

I can’t distance myself today from what I saw last week.

The scene plays over and over in my mind, an endless loop. The child condemned to die.

No melodrama here, just plain old reality. More so than the baby who died of starvation the morning we arrived at the hospital is the child doomed to die for lack of a simple operation. Isaiah. Four years old, he lay in his crib, his pale legs like matchsticks, his breathing shallow and labored. A tube shoved down his nose, an IV stuck into his skinny arm. His mother stood by him, stroking his forehead, pushing back the thinning brown hair from his eyes. Tears flooded her own eyes, dripped down her cheeks as she told us the story. The silent plea in them was unmistakable.

Help save my baby from dying.

We couldn’t.

It was too late, and the mere fact socked me like a sucker punch. There was help there, you see. Isaiah suffered from a blocked esophagus. Each time he swallowed food, he vomited it back up because his throat would only swallow so much. He became thinner and thinner. But luck was with him because there were two American doctors at San Pedro Sula who were set to operate the morning we visited. They would cut a hole in his esophagus and Isaiah, after healing, would be a normal little boy again.

But the night before, his mom, who had kept a steadfast vigil at his bedside for the 22 days he was at the hospital, had to go home to tend to her other children. In her place, she sent her older son. And the older son, despite doctor’s orders, thought his little brother needed food. Maybe he couldn't understand. The reason why doesn't matter. He fed him.

Isaiah went into convulsions. The surgery was cancelled. I asked the head nurse if they couldn’t do the surgery. She said, “He’s too unstable.”

“And when he stabilizes? Can the American doctors operate?”

“They are leaving today.”

The doctors, who could have saved his life, would have, but they couldn’t and were leaving Honduras. So I stood there in this little boy’s hospital room, knowing what the mom probably already felt. Her son was going to die.

He could have been saved.

I thought later of lost opportunities in life. Everyone has them slip through their fingers, out of sheer bad luck or ill timing. A great job, a book published, a dream fulfilled.

For Isaiah, it is a life saved.

Photos from Honduras

I'm home at last. My trip last week... still trying to
recuperate from lack of sleep... these are some of the
typical sights I see while in the field. The shrine I
included is not typical; this was shot when we
stopped very briefly to see the cave shrine built
to protect drivers along the dangerous stretch
of two-lane highway. I didn't notice the sun
streaming behind the mountain when I shot it.


The "gift" left at a halfway house for children. Five days old, she was abandoned by her mother at the hospital right after birth.

Family I met who was scavenging for their evening dinner. Dad in background was laid off in Dec., "friends" stole his severance check so he's forced to dig in the dump. Still, he says, "I trust that God will never abandon me and will find me another job." The stuffed animal the little boy is holding is his treasure he found in the trash. 

People waiting for garbage dump to unload so they can comb through what others tossed out in dump in San Pedro Sula. The "good" garbage dump. 

Poor family inside their house, the only bed they have to sleep upon. 

Road side shrine to the Virgin Mary right after dead man's curve 

tough decisions

Still in Honduras, leaving today. Been doing a lot of thinking on this trip. Heard some horror stories, sad stories... the girl left tied to a tree by her parents, forced to stand in one position outside all day, who was starved and her limbs so restricted they didn't fully form. She's 13 now and in a group home, but she doesn't talk. The priest, Fr. Patricio, whom we met yesterday. He selects the poorest of the poor children for his feeding program because there are so many and he can't feed them all. "I can't feed them all. I feed those I can, the hungriest."

There was a little girl waiting outside, hovering, really in the doorway, looking inside as the children under 6 were getting their daily glasses of milk. She looked so sad. Her face was burnt and she stood there, just waiting. This was the milk we are providing Fr. P., but still, he can only feed so many. And we asked her, her name was Yamileth, why she waited. She told us, "I'm hungry and I'm hoping to get some milk." She was 9, and too old for the program. But if the priest fed her, the other older children would find out and he'd have to feed everyone and he just doesn't have enough. He has to feed the most vulnerable, the very young, who sometimes get ignored in their large families and don't get fed. Jesus, those kids they were feeding, that was IT for them... they don't eat anything else. Nada. That was their meal. A lousy glass of milk we're supplying and some raisin bran a Canadian organization donated.

We got Yamileth a glass of milk. Her smile was as if we'd handed her a diamond necklace.

I can't imagine being Fr. Pat, having to make these tough decisions, wanting to feed them all and he can't. More than half of Honduras' population is under 15. And he told me 80 percent of the people are living in poverty. There is no middle class. Just the very wealthy and the very poor.

So i'm doing some tough thinking of my own. Tough decisions.

Maybe it's time for me to quit writing. I don't know... am I really cut out for the world of romance? Do I want to keep continuing the struggle of trying to get books published? The frustration, the pressure? Does it really matter anyway? I mean, if I quit, no one's going to miss my books. And this work I do. 11 years of traveling in the Third World, seeing tears and pain and poverty and sharing laughter as well, but I'm so weary right now and depressed... and all the work I do, does it really do any good? For all the people I help feed, another goes hungry and another. And some die. Have I really done any good in 11 years of working as a writer to raise money to help the poor?

Maybe it's time for a real soul-searching change. Take a long break. Become a pool cleaner or a bag lady at Publix. Paper or plastic? I'm too damn depressed right now to think about it. Maybe tomorrow. I'll be Scarlett O'Hara. I won't think about that today. I'll think about it tomorrow.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Peligro mujer trabajando

Danger, woman working!

Okay, so we went to another garbage dump today and this was was a little rougher and the guys there were young, doped up glue sniffers who looked tough and just because four of them shouted at us and jumped on the car as we're leaving, pounding on the roof and screaming obsenities at us in Spanish... it doesn't mean I had a bad day.

Today was actually an adventurous day.

We toured around with a great priest who joked with us and has some wonderful projects to help the poor. He promised me he will try to learn English next time and I will learn Spanish so we can talk. He's training young people to take over his projects and run them, all young people from the various communities he works in. The man is a dynamo. We also toured with a great female Episcopal priest who took us to Rincon de Dolores, "The Place of Suffering." I asked why they call it that and got a wise ass answer. In spanish and english.

We suffered as we walked up and down hills for more than 25 minutes looking for a rundown house the woman priest wanted us to see. It was a beautiful day though, hiking through this thick pine forest. The Honduran government has a wonderful policy to prevent deforestation. They give away 2-3 acres of land to the comuneros, (the commoners) who in return, patrol about 5-6 acres of forest, looking for brush fires during the dry season, and anyone who might cut down a tree. We found the house, and the woman was home. She told us she'd rather sleep on the ground outside than inside. She cooks inside and it was smoky and dark and stifling.

Came back to the hotel and took a hot shower to wash off the little red bugs that suck blood and burrow under your skin. I think there aren't any on me. Can't be as bad as the time last year in the DR when red bull ants invaded my suitcase when we were staying at this nun's house. I had to shake out all my clothing. I don't really like having ants in my pants.

San Pedro Sula

In Honduras. Today was a good, but heartbreaking day. It began with a visit to the hospital and the baby we were going to see had just died this morning of starvation. Sigh... We also visited a halfway house for orphaned and abandoned children. There was a family of six adorable kids, the youngest was only 6 months, and the mother was too poor to keep them. She loves her kids, but knew they were better off there. So shes working to try to get them back. I have hope we can get her a house, if we can, she ll probably have her children returned to her. Every time she visits them and leaves, the kids all cry for her.

Then they brought in a five day old baby. A little girl, just abandoned at the hospital by her mother. Today is Woman´s Day in Honduras and the caretaker cried out, "It´s a gift because of Woman´s Day." They love the children there and take excellent care of them.

Then we visited El Garbage Dumpo. Met a man and his children who were digging through the trash for food for tonight. They showed us their haul, fruit others had thrown away and expired porridge mix. The father had a very good job at the factory but was laid off in December. They gave him a fat severance check. On his way to the bank, his friends set him up and stole all the money. So now he is reduced to digging through the trash for food. But he has this optimistic, deeply faithful attitude that life will improve and God will provide Amazing. I am always amazed by the depth of the faith I find in the most desperate of cases.

This was one of the busiest garbage dumps I have seen. People and children everywhere. As soon as the garbage trucks pulled up and dumped their load, they swarmed all over it like bees, digging through it. Some children found a huge bag of potato chips and launched into them, munching like mad. Seeing children eating garbage, it does something to your guts. As many times as I have seen it, it never fails to tear me in half. So there was my day. A dead baby this morning and ending up with kids eating rotting garbage. Sigh...

Leaving for Honduras

Tomorrow, I leave. Trying to get last minute chores and packing done. My packing is done in order of priority; first the Immodium, then the sinus meds (my trip to El Salvador last year I had a headache from the pollution and the dust) and books. Great reading time, on the airplane.

Went into the hot tub. 58 degrees out and dropping to 36 tonight. Yes, I'm a wimp. I live in Florida. Once I lived in the wilds of NJ and braved the ice and snow. Now I shiver below 69. But hey, I tolerate the heat.

Going through old files and found a story I had written about Jabari's son and Ramses' daughter falling in love. Posted the first chapter on my web site on the "What's New" section http://www.bonnievanak.com/new.htm. I don't know if I'll ever get this book published, but I do love these characters. Tarik, caught between two worlds; his mother's independent western ways of thought and his struggle to be a strong leader, like his father, the sheikh. Fatima; who's just plain outspoken, and wants to be a warrior. Because she knows she can do it. Just because she's a woman, why should she be held back? I love Fatima's character. Go Fatima, go. Break the rules and prove them wrong. Oh yeah.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

The Donald is marrying today

The Donald is marrying today in my backyard.

Well not literally my backyard. Palm Beach, just a long stone’s throw away from my back yard. The reception will be held at Mar-a-Lago, his modest Florida home. Said festivities will take place in the very modest $42 million Versailles ballroom, replete with 17 crystal chandeliers, 24-k gold leaf moldings and a marble floor just tres perfect for dancing. Melania Knauss’s dress (will she hyphen to Knauss-Trump?) is wearing, sshhhhhhh!! It’s a secret. But all the world knows her gown is a $100,000+ strapless Dior, that was featured on the cover of Vogue, and took 550 hours to embroider and has acres of white satin and a train that’s longer than Amtrak.

Guests will include Billy Joel, Oprah Winfrey, Clint Eastwood and David Letterman. The town council of Palm Beach nixed The Donald’s request for fireworks shot off in his 5+ acre backyard. Oh pooh! Well, rain on my parade, why don’t you, town council?

I checked my mailbox this week to see if my wedding invite was delayed. Alas, it wasn’t. The sad truth is, I’m not invited.

Ironically, about 20 years ago, I would have given ANYTHING for a glimpse at The Donald.. I used to work in Palm Beach as a reporter for a society newspaper.

I’d prowl Worth Avenue, notebook in hand, peering at the rows of Bentley’s and Rolls, and black-tinted limos in vain hope for just a peek at that man. I attended the theater, recitals, lectures and even black tie society balls. It was my first reporting job and I was caught up in the glitz and fairytale like opulence that is Palm Beach in The Season. Our offices were guarded by a chic receptionist with blood red dragon nails who used to hiss at the hordes of old biddies who would stampede our office to eagerly grab the latest edition to see if their photo was featured. Then they would buy oodles of copies to have something to crow over during meals with the girls at Ta-boo or Café L’Europe or Testa’s.

The invites to all the society balls would stream into our offices like winter snow. I’d walk outside our offices and see Rolls Royces or Bentley’s parked there, like smug, superior thoroughbreds next to my aging, faded Nissan.

I remember my first Palm Beach gala. I was petrified of not doing a good job. The society editor advised me thus, “Dahling, just grab the guest list, make a note of who’s there, jot down some notes on how beautiful it all is and have a good time.” Easy enough. I sat at my assigned table and guzzled champagne that cost more than my monthly salary and got tipsy. I entertained my dinner companions by making sly remarks about a well-endowed young lady dripping in emeralds who was accompanied by a much much much older man. They hooted while she sat, batting her long eyelashes, at her man.

The best times though, were sitting and yaking with the cops. Cops always have great stories. Palm Beach cops have wonderful stories. Like the call they received to rescue this older gentleman found dangling from a second story balcony. Naked. Attached to said balcony by a pair of handcuffs.

But all during my crazy tenure at the newspaper, I never once saw my dream man, The Donald. I never made it inside Mar-a-Lago, though my editor did. She returned looking dreamy and distant, like someone who’d been transported to a fairyland or was cranked up on acid.

I’d drive by Mar-a-Largo and stare for the five seconds it took to pass it on the bend, and crane my neck to see if The Donald might be out sunbathing on the lawn or ordering his minions about.

And time passed and I went on to a real reporting job and I forgot all about The Donald. Palm Beach became a distant memory.

And now my haunts aren’t Worth Avenue and the cute little cafes or the immense, glittering ballrooms of The Breakers. They’re slums and shantytowns and garbage dumps.

Next week I’m in Honduras, touring a garbage dump. I’ll be writing stories of the families who live there in cardboard and plastic homes, and dig through the rotting trash for food and things to sell to stave off hunger.
Chances are I’ll never see The Donald in person. Our paths will never cross.

I think I can live with that. Besides, that hair…

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Bedouin fashion guide

Last night I was researching Bedouins on the web and found this line: “The Bedouin dresses for the desert, in layered and flowing robes.”

Hmm. The imagination reels with possibilities. Imagine a NY fashionista guide to trekking across the desert.

“The well dressed Bedouin is attired in long, flowing Dior robes of ecru which billow smoothly over a pair of eggshell 400-thread count Egyptian cotton trousers by Diesel. This tres chic ensemble is smartly accessorized with a Hermes leather belt and Kenneth Cole open toed leather sandals. He adds a dash of Dolce and Gabbana’s new line of colognes for the Bedu on the go; Au de Dromedary, for that authentic touch of desert scent. Dressed for success, this natty ensemble will suit even the fussiest of desert raiders.”

Mad Lib Authors

Daydreaming of pseudonyms…

Cinnamon Struts (nice and spicy)
Foodles McBride (Scottish ring to it)
Johnson Ogle (no explanation needed)
Johnson Little (dare me!)
Rosie Cheeks (Hmmm)
Sue D. Nims (ha!)
Velda Dark (gothic)
D. Flower (trite)
Monica Fox (nah)
Monica Lewinsky (I think this one is taken)

A friend commented recently about best-selling authors who write crap. “How does this crap get published?” she wondered. “I mean, ten thousand monkeys pumped up on crack could write better.”

I told her ten thousand monkeys on crack didn’t need to write better if they were tagged with a best-selling name. Some authors could fill out a form and insert words, like the old Mad Libs we once did, and it would get published and sell a gadzillion copies. Invent your own book! Like this: (Choose one of each in the following sentence):

“He (stroked) (caressed) (tickled) (squeezed) her (plump) (rounded) (pear shaped) (breast) (butt) (nose) as she cried out while (writhing) (undulating) (calculating her income tax). But his overpowering (masculinity) (sensuality) (body odor), which had caused hundreds of women to (faint) (surrender) (resolve to join a convent) stirred deep (desire) (passion) (flatulence) within her. All she wanted to do was (jump his bones) (lick him like fat-free chocolate) (watch old Bonanza reruns) as he massaged her with (scented oil) (hot lotion) (WD-40).

See?
http://www.bonnievanak.com

All things Hoover

Mara 18 did a kidnapping in Honduras, but police rescued him. He was gagged and tied to a bed in a shack near the capital city. Guy was a legal advisor to the security ministry. Mara 18 and Mara Salvatrucha are the two leading gangs in Honduras. Their turf is the poor slums in the cities, places we are visiting next week.

Listless tonight because DH had another emergency call in the middle of the night, this time for a friend whose electrical panel was sizzling. Maybe tonight no calls? Can I take the phone off the hook? Can we move to a place where there are no phones?

Some guy started a blog called All Things Dunkin Donuts. Donut/celebrity trivia, news from the donut frontlines, etc. Does it because he wanted to share his love of DD with people. Whoa boy… ok, so some people really do need a life. Maybe I’ll start a new blog about the consumer products in my life. Call it All Things Hoover. About the joy of things that suck.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Rewards

Day off. What a luxury... slept until 8:30. 65 degrees out, sunny, gorgeous REALLY wanted to go to the beach, but I resolved to write today.

Did two loads of laundry, and sat down to write ten pages. Stared at screen. Nothing. Blank. Edited instead. Then I told myself if I wrote ten pages, I'd get a reward. I started at a point that interested me and wrote and wrote. Finally! Ten pages. Rewarded myself with a nice, long bike ride then climbed into the hot tub. Mmmmmm. Next Monday I'm in Honduras. No hot tubs, no bike riding, just work work work.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

A gay bomb?

News Flash: In 1994, the Pentagon nixed a proposal to develop a gay bomb. It was part of a $7.5 million request from an Air Force base Ohio lab to fund non-lethal chemical weapons.

A gay bomb? OMG, I can see it now, the guys from QUEER EYE doing covert missions, dropping into enemy territory, criticizing the camouflage (Oh horror! They have pleats!), bemoaning their "nose bush" no-no's. What would such a bomb contain? Photos of Judy Garland? What yahoo dreamed up such an asinine idea? Did they think that you drop a gay bomb and suddenly the enemy gets amorous and they all attack each other in a wild sexual orgy? This is where my tax dollars are going? Sheesh…

Why don’t they just invent a non-lethal bomb that spurs cooking among the enemy? Instead of training in weapons and warfare, they will be unable to resist the impulse to rush to the kitchen and whip up a delicate concoction that would make Martha Stewart, imprisoned or not, weep? Imagine the world with men in kitchens instead of the battlefield. Wars of haute cuisine. The Epicure Bomb. “MY cilantro lime chicken is better than YOUR prosciutto-stuffed pork chop.” And when things get real serious and they must fight? They can all pelt lentils at each other.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Christmas paper sex

Feel like someone beat me with a sack of oranges. Last night just as we both fell asleep DH got an emergency call to the hospital. Insomnia struck, I couldn't sleep without him, finally did and he came home at 5 a.m. He got two hours sleep, was up at 7 and went to church with his dad. I swear the man is bionic.

I crashed again and had weird dreams. Dreamt that I was at a Paul McCartney concert with girlfriends, when I was much younger and he was much younger and cuter (20-something) and he invited me back to his hotel room. Me, the raving PM fan, was giddy at the idea of having sex with my favorite crush. I got there and he is sitting in an easy chair drinking milk and eating cookies. All he wants to do is talk about how stressful the music business is. Disgusted, I leave, vowing to track down Mick Jagger, who doesn't have issues.

Resolved today to do something productive and then write at least 3 pages. It's a dreary day outside, so I finally tackled the spare bedroom closet. Starting digging through all that mess and lo and behold I find roll after roll of Christmas wrapping paper on the bottom of the pile. ROLLS of it! I mean, we're talking four or five years worth. I know what happened. Every year I knew we had Christmas wrapping paper, but couldn't find it so we just bought more. Either that or two rolls decided to get together, have a glass of wine and heated sex and make other rolls. Yeah, that's it. Christmas wrapping paper making babies. Santa and Frosty getting it on and giving birth to this roll of grinning penguins. Smiling penguin wrapping paper. Tacky, but hey, it was on sale.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Fark it!

Found a delightful web site that features odd and quirky news articles from all over the globe. Fark.com. Some samples:

1) Julian McHahon, who plays a plastic surgeon on NIP/TUCK, is asked all the time by women how their boobs are and if they should get a boob job. Seems they think he’s an expert. (Sounds like a good side business for him. If NIP/TUCK goes off the air, maybe he can open a drive-by Mammary Assessment Center with free hands on exams. )

2) Victoria’s Secret is bringing 1,000 jobs to Licking County. Pending approval by the Licking county commissioners. (Just saying “Licking Country Commissioners cracks me up. One wonders about other businesses in Licking County. KFC: Finger Licking good. Burger King: Have it your way in Licking. Campbell soup: Mmmm, mmmm good, Licking! Timex: Takes a licking and keeps on ticking in Licking! Wendy’s: Where’s the beef in Licking? Avis: We try harder in Licking. Trojan condoms: What a man wants in Licking.)

3) A woman admitted to drinking three glasses of three glasses of Listerine mouthwash in Michigan was arrested for drunk driving. (She may have been drunk, but hey, she gave a blast of freshness to that Breathalyzer.)

4) In Stockholm, Sweden, a landlord says it’s okay for a couple to make noisy love, as long as it’s done in the daytime. Neighbors complained about the couple. Law protects them from being evicted, and the housing project’s marketing director said that “It's comparable with babies having colic.” (Yeah, uh huh. Babies crying from having gas and couples humping like moaning bunnies. Same thing. Poor Sweden. No sex at night but then again, who can tell when it’s night? It’s dark all winter! )

5) French cemetery in Paris fenced off statue of journalist Victor Noir to prevent women from touching his groin. Seems like women like to rub the statue for luck. The statue is lying down and features, “a distinct enlargement in the groin.” (Sheesh. I guess size does matter to men, even when you’re dead. As for the rubbing, sorry ladies. Bad news. When you’re dead, it’s done and there ain’t no bringing it back to life. Not even with Viagra.)

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Woo hoo!

Cool news. I made the final rounds in the FF&P’s On the Far Side contest in the paranormal erotic category. This was my wacky, warped fairy tale comedy, The Cinderella Rebellion. I’m shocked, because I had entered to get feedback from the judges. Never expected to final. It’s one of the few contests where I can enter an unpublished work because I’m not published in that category.

I do like this story. My first erotica! It’s about Cinderella escaping from her fairy tale into the real world and the king of IsBn, who rules over all fiction, trying to coax her back. There’s lots of references to romance. When the alarm bells ring, telling Daryl, the king that something is amiss in the world of fiction, he glances at the romance monitors and muses, “Did Nora Roberts fail to make the NY Times list?”

Still plugging along on Rashid’s story. Added some touches of humor to lighten it up, but I’m determined to write this book as his character dictates. That’s why I’m thrilled Cinderella made it to the finals. I’m trying to expand my writing. Write something dramatic and dark, and then write something funny and light. Allowing myself the freedom to explore Rashid’s reclusive personality and Jillian’s determination to draw him out.

Now if I could only sleep. Insomnia all this week. Three hours of sleep last night. Dog kept snoring.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Romance titles that will never make it

I should be working, but I'm imagining romance titles that will never make it...

The Sheikh & the Tired Prostitute

The Cowboy’s Secret Moody Teenager

Are you my mommy’s sperm donor?

The Bride’s Significant Other

My Sexy Transvestite

Lady Tweedle’s Bunions

The Boring Marquess

A case of herpes to remember

Kiss of the Used Car Salesman

Truck Driver in a Kilt

The Rake & the Hoe

Highland Engineer

The Pirate who never Bathed

The Chinless Duke

The Virgin in Menopause

And last, but not least…

Vibrator of my dreams

http://www.bonnievanak.com

going bananas

And I thought I had a rough day at work...

DH calls and says, "How's it going?" When I tell it is going, somewhere, he tells me, "I got hit in the head by a banana."

Huh?

Seems he was working in the ER, near a patient who was baker acted. The patient suddenly began hurling his lunch at everyone in sight. He took the banana and WHUMP! Hit my husband on the back of the head.

"It was a big banana," DH told me. "12 inches."

I tried my best NOT to make a snarky remark. Failed. What do you say to your husband when he tells you a 12-inch banana attacked him?

Is Friday here yet?

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Writer's Anonymous

I wrote 12 steps to being a happier writer.

The Twelve Steps of Writers Anonymous

1. We admitted we were powerless over publishing.

2. Came to believe that a force greater than ourselves, the publishers, editors, agents and the reading public, held the power.

3. Made a decision to turn our will over to the joy of writing for writing in itself as a pure creative expression of our inner selves.

4. Made a determination to write fearlessly without the restraints of the inner critic.

5. Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another fellow writer that this business truly sucks some days.

6. Were entirely ready to allow ourselves the freedom of expressing ourselves through our writing, no matter how politically uncorrect or unmarketable the writing was.

7. Humbly acknowledged there will always be a writer better than us, more popular, with better sales, more contracts, some of whom have egos that suck up all the space until we’re left with a gasping black hole.

8. Made a list of all the egocentric writers and decided never to buy their books, except at a UBS. Continue to support other popular authors, read their books and learn from the wisdom of their experience.

9. Acknowledged there will always be writers worse than us as well, and all we can do is become the best writer we are meant to be instead of comparing ourselves to others.

10. Continued to balance our writing with our personal lives and to treat other writers with the same respect we ourselves desire.

11. Sought the advice of more experienced writers, writing manuals and workshops to improve our writing, but while acknowledging these methods may not work for us and that’s okay.

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to practice these principles in all our writing.

Asia trip?

I may go to Indonesia for the tsunami relief efforts. My organization has been besieged with pleas for help over there and our suppliers are all but shoveling containers at us, begging us to send them over there because we’re known for getting aid to where it’s needed most.


If I go, it wouldn’t be for a month. Too soon to tell. After visiting Haiti after the flooding, at least I know what to expect. The dead bodies will be gone by then, hunger and disease set in. In Gonaives, they did amputations without anesthesia, that’s how overwhelming the need was for medicine and supplies. Mothers talked to me with blank shock in their eyes about watching their babies drown as they were swept away. People living on their rooftops, mud clogging their homes. 2,000 died in Haiti, leaving hundreds of thousands of survivors. Now we’re talking 140,000 dead in Asia, with 5 million survivors.

Sheesh, anyone reading this must think I’m a nutcase. I go from whimsically writing about inventing purple prose words for a man’s private part to talking about dead bodies and disease and hunger. That’s my life. The pendulum kicks back and forth, forcing me to shift gears without warning. It’s nothing compared to the suffering of the victims. No wonder TV reality shows like Survivor hold no interest for me. I’ve seen the real thing, and it’s raw, real and blistering.

The Bulging Rampant Purple Love Warrior

Trying to think up different names for a man’s private part that won’t sound like purple prose. Difficult. Let's see...

Love Monkey Handle (remember CB radio's? What's your handle?)
Staff of Ra, the god of love muffins (nice Egyptian ring)
Mighty rod of pleasure
tower of power
Cupid’s thrusting arrow of molten heat
Male instrument (What instrument do you play?)
One-eyed snake in the night
One-eyed snake in the day
One-eyed tired snake
Bulging Rampant Purple Love Warrior (that’s purple prose)
Love pole
Stud plunger (Goodness, that sounds like a bathroom product)

Ah… I think I have it now…

The organ men sometimes use to think with…

The brain

A lost oasis

Note to self: Never again throw a party while trying to recuperate from a killer hangover from New Year’s Eve.

Starting off the year determined to forge ahead on Rashid’s story. Book is getting darker, but added touches of humor as well to lighten it, such as the scene where he is discussing venturing deep in the western desert to find the treasure, and Jabari warns him the way is treacherous and the oasis difficult to find. Rashid boasts he can navigate at night by the stars and find camel tracks in the softest sand. Then Jabari and Ramses exchange glances and Ramses remarks, “And you got lost in Cairo trying to find the Shepheard’s Hotel.”

I’m having fun researching the setting. Learning all about the environment of the western desert. Rain is rare, but it happens. In 1873, German explorer Gerhard Rohlfs set out for the great sand sea. He got stranded and unbelievably, for two days, it rained. And saved him. Explorers believed somewhere in the western desert was the lost city of Zerzura, an oasis where there was a castle filled with treasure.

I'd love to be an explorer, searching for a lost treasure city. Guess I'll have content myself with visiting slums instead. Trip to Honduras all set for month’s end. Gang violence getting worse, there’s a bit of concern since the incident two weeks ago when gangs raided a public bus and shot and killed 28 people. But I figure we’re not taking public transportation, so we’ll be okay.

Happy New Year

Short post. Past midnight. Happy New Year. fun, festivities tonight, mingling with sad thoughts. the most important thing in life is to be happy, and consider the needs of others. Forgive and forget, move on and move forward. Never live for yourself. That's a pretty damn short life you've been given, do as much good as you can to make others feel good about themselves, to shorten the distance between yourself and your neighbor. We're all in this together, why should we fight against each other? I dunno... going to bed now. I'm getting too sentimental to post anymore. Maybe some day we will have peace on earth, and no more suffering. But hey, I make a killer rum ball, so I do my part.

Happy New Year. Blessings to everyone for a peaceful, blessed New Year.

How to donate to Asian disaster relief

I’ve been quiet the past few days, thinking about the tragedy in Asia. 114,000 dead, death toll sure to rise. Trying to avoid the news and getting depressed, and at the same time, I can’t. In a situation like this, I feel as helpless and yet I want to do something to help.

So I’ve decided to devote this blog entry to encourage anyone reading it to donate and how to donate carefully and wisely. Working for a large international relief organization for 11 years, I know a little about giving. My organization doesn’t help Asia, but many worthy charities do. So how do you pick one to donate to?

I recommend visiting this web site to check out charities:

http://www.charitynavigator.org

Charity Navigator investigates non-profits and their finances and rates them. The highest rating, which my charity has, is four stars. Here’s some tips on giving from Charity Navigator:

1) Give to an established charity.
2) Designate your gift to go towards the cause you want to help (i.e. mark on the check and the envelope – Asian tsunami relief)
3) Avoid telemarketers.
4) Research the charity.

My own advice? I like to give to organizations that can quickly mobilize and have resources in place to help the most urgent needs. The most urgent needs are medical assistance, food, water, blankets, tents for housing, vaccinations against diseases like cholera and hepatitis (which I should get and never did after 11 years of traveling the Third World), and medical supplies. Doctors without Borders is a wonderful organization that sends medicine and trained medical personnel to disaster areas. http://www.msf.org/about/index.cfm

The Red Cross is good, BUT be SURE to mark your gift (Asian Tsunami relief!) Otherwise it could go into the general fund and help here in America. Or you can give to the INTERNATIONAL Red Cross, a separate organization. Here’s their web site: http://www.ifrc.org/


I personally like Oxfam, http://www.oxfamamerica.org/
although their charity navigator rating is only a 3 out of 4 stars. I like them because I’ve seen their teams on the ground in disasters, such as the Gonaives flooding in Haiti. (And their driver had the sense NOT to fall off the road and tip the vehicle, lol) And UNICEF is wonderful. The United Nations Children’s Fund is a fantastic organization.
http://www.unicefusa.org/site/pp.asp?c=duLRI8O0H&b=25933


Another favorite of mine is World Vision. http://www.wvi.org/wvi/home.htm
They’re a Christian charity that help everywhere, regardless of denominations. Wonderful programs that teach job skills to indigent mothers, etc. A friend worked for them for a year in Afghanistan and our organization worked with them in Jamaica after the flooding there. We helped them store supplies and worked with them to get bottled water, food, etc. to the hurricane victims. In a crisis like this, charities all pitch in together.

So no matter who you chose to send your gift to, it counts. You may think whatever you can give won’t be more than a drop in the bucket compared to the need of 5 million survivors, but consider that your drop, combined with other drops, creates an ocean. Every dollar counts. You’d be amazed at how charities can get the most bang for your buck. My organization can feed a starving family of four for more than two months with a gift of only $20. Other charities are equally resourceful.

Think of it this way: if your gift could help save just one life of someone who survived the horror of this tragedy, wouldn’t that make a difference to you?

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Why I live in Florida

I think I've finally got the Christmas spirits.... I mean, spirit...

Christmas day was balmy, sticky, 76 degrees with me wishing for cooler temps, although sympathizing with those in the Midwest. Had a peaceful, good day with family.

Today? 58 degrees and I indulged. The hot tub was a blissful 103, the skies clear, the wind blowing 25 mph and I sat in the hot tub soaking for a wonderful, tension free 30 minutes, parboiling myself whilst sipping a cocktail. Admiring the way the palms are growing along the private back fence, relishing my greenery, the blue skies, and living in a state where I can slip into my hot tub and wriggle my toes above the water and know once I get out, my body will not turn into a giant popsicle. Each time I felt a little warm, I sat above the water line, chilled, and then sank beneath the warm water again. Ummmmm... Now it's time to try to write a little with my new Christmas gift, the wireless mouse Dh bought me.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Ho ho ho

Feeling more perky and cheerful. Last night DH took me to see a holiday festival of lights display and it put me more into the Christmas mood. Just a little last minute grocery shopping and I'm done, but for wrapping. My best Christmas gift? DH cleaned most of the house and did the laundry. woo hoo!

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Christmas blues

Been fighting it all week, the usual Christmas melancholy that I get. Seems like many of the tragedies in my life occurred around the holidays. So I'm opening the Christmas cards and see the one from my cousin. I read the letter.

She has cancer.

She sounds very upbeat, which is wonderful, but the news kinda socked me. She's only two years older than me. And then I realized how long it's been since I've seen my dad's side of the family. Too long. Next year. I promise, next year I'm going to take a trip and visit.

It's not that we were particularly close, like sisters, but hell, I loved visiting with my hip, sassy NY cousins. They were funny, witty and made me crack up. They grew up in the small house in Queens where my dad was born. My uncle still lives in it today.

Sigh... I wish I could get into the Christmas spirit, the cheerfulness and the general feeling of good will. I want to. But not this year. Maybe next...

Haiti airport warning today

Rum balls went over quite well yesterday at work.

News reports today say security at Haiti’s airport is lax. The Department of Homeland Security is telling airlines that fly into Haiti to warn travelers Haiti’s airport does not meet international security standards. One official called the PAP airport a “lawless outpost."

Hmmm. I’m wondering what prompted this. Having just flown back and forth to Haiti, in one day last week, I am analyzing the security now. At MIA, went through xray machines (once) before we hit the gates. I left my Alpha Smart in my backpack, which I usually take out (since it’s like a laptop). I just wanted to see if anyone noticed. No one noticed at MIA. Took my shoes off, as usual. Got through just fine.

Flying from Haiti back to MIA? You go through TWO xray machines. First when you enter the departure area, and have to screen all your bags, including your luggage. Again, left my Alpha Smart in the backpack. No one said anything. Took off my shoes. Then, after immigration, before you head to the (ONE) gate, you go through another xray screening process.

So what DID the Department of Homeland Security find? Or did they find anything at all to prompt this ominous warning? Maybe it isn’t the security passengers go through, but the access to the tarmac?

Having traveled to Haiti for 10 years, I know how much the airport itself has improved. That government official who called it a “lawless outpost” should have traveled there five years ago. Oy! What a zoo! You would disembark and head into this crowded, airless room for immigration, where paint flaked off the walls. The bathroom right after immigration was this ghastly nightmare with a bucket for flushing. Then the fun really started when you tried to get your bags. Porters would be swarming like bees over the sagging, broken luggage belt, grabbing your suitcase off before you could. It was mass chaos. I got used to it.

Last week? Quiet, organized and efficient. The room where you wait to be cleared by immigration is air conditioned, gleaming with new tile and colorful Haitian murals. The bathrooms are spotless and modern. They’ve cleared out all the madmen trying to grab your bags and only official porters are allowed now.

So, what did they find? I’m focused on this sentence, “One knowledgeable source described the problem as lax screening of passengers and bags and generally poor security around the airport perimeter.”

There you go. “around the airport perimeter.” I have a hunch the problem with security isn’t screening passengers. It’s the airport perimeter. A row of shacks ring the perimeter. There's a slum near the airport that the poor simply call "airport" when you ask them where they live. Last week as we were flying out, there was this guy on a tractor mowing the fields adjacent to the runway. I was idly watching him, wondering if he were hired by the government for groundskeeping. Or if he just happened to be there, tooling along on his tractor. I don’t know.

But it makes you wonder.

Bonnie's balls

turn on kitchen overhead lights. Dress in comfy baking clothing. Crank up stereo with tape of "The Messiah" to get self into Christmas baking mode.

Pound vanilla wafers with fist. Feels good to get out frustrations, keep doing it. Mix with crushed nuts and then realize need cocoa mix. Have none. Melt Ghirardelli chocolate chips instead. First shut off all appliances and overhead lights so ancient microwave doesn't trip circuit breaker...AGAIN. Watch chips melt by flashlight. Dog is confused. Take gooey mess of chips, say "Uk" and add a bit of milk to get them to melt better. Nuke again. Turn back all appliances. Take mess and dump into bowl. Add 1/3 cup Barbancourt rum. Add 1/3 cup corn syrup. Stir. Sip bit of Barbancourt. Add more rum to mix. Stire fastuh. Realize gooey mess will not sthick together. Add powdahed sugah. Add more rhume. Stire more, draink more.

Realize mess will not roll into little balls. Think about the idea of serving little ballz to male coworkers. Laugh. Ha ha! Put mess of rum stuffz in freezea to get to sthick. Drink morea baranb...barn...barban? aw hell, rhum. Eat store bought Christmas cookie with drink. Good. Dog shakes head.

mailto:bonnie@bonnievanak.com
http://www.bonnievanak.com

Victory!

Yipee! Small victory. Made my goal of getting to 200 pages on Rashid's story. Just pounded away last night on the laptop. Wrote 8 pages. They flowed. The more I write, the more I like his character and Jillian's. Figured out a scene where they begin to bond emotionally and her innver strength comes out. She steps in and helps him at a critical time. I love how he encourages her to be the person she's meant to be. Jillian thinks she's weak and she's been invisible most of her life, but he pushes her into stepping out of the shadows.

Decided to make chocolate rum balls tonight to celebrate. Oh dear. Bonnie baking. But since it doesn't involve turning on the oven, I think the household is safe. No blown circuit breakers, no fire extinguisher needed on stand-by. Using Barbancourt Five Star. Whoa boy. Merry, HIC, Christmas!

Rude bird

It's cold today in sunny Florida. Only 55! The poor doggies are shivering. Had to bring the parrot inside to keep him warm. He's in a temporary cage in the kitchen. His food is over the floor. It's my lunch hour and I'm cleaning up parrot food. I told him, "You're a slob." He replied, "Yeah. F*** you."

Sigh... I feel like Rodney Dangerfield. Can't get no respect.

mailto:bonnie@bonnievanak.com
http://www.bonnievanak.com

uhhhhhhhhhhh

Note to self: Consume less Bailey's at Christmas parties. Buy more Advil.

My mom

Nine years ago today, my mom died of colon cancer. Oddly enough, today I found an essay I wrote 5 years ago about finding the grace of acceptance amid loss. I'm posting it here. It's a tearjerker.

Finding grace in loss
copyright 2000 by Bonnie Vanak

“What is it you can’t live without?” My friend’s question forced the forkful of scrambled eggs to stop halfway to my lips. Such a deep, probing question for Sunday morning. I didn’t know how to answer.

She continued talking, not noticing my silence. I never did respond. But the question dogged my thoughts like a determined bloodhound. No easy answers exist, for every day I process loss of control and find within myself an ability to give up everything I thought I could never live without. My list includes motherhood, climbing to the top of the corporate ladder, family members, even the innocent love of my first marriage. These precious items I once held so tightly in my fists in fear that they would slip through the cracks of my fingers - I now unclench my fist and let them spill out like golden grains of sand. I let them go back to the Earth, back to God.

Slowly, oh how slowly, I have learned that even without what I consider life’s most precious items, the ultimate reality is that my being, my soul survives no matter what the loss. I survive, I thrive, I learn and grow. With loss comes the grace of acceptance.

The journey toward grace hasn’t been easy, but it began with someone I thought I could never live without - my mother. Dear Lord, how I still miss her! Five years after her death I can see her face with its mischeavous smile and her green eyes dancing with amusement. I hear her laughter echoing through the valleys of my mind like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. I was so blessed to have her even for one day of my life, but God granted her to me for 35 precious years.

No one ever thought she was ill, even the day of my wedding when she walked proudly down the aisle on my brother’s arm, beaming as if she herself were the bride. If she leaned on him a little hard, as if for strength, no one noticed. We, her family, believed her statement, “It’s the flu. I’m just a little tired,” when she excused herself to retire early from the pre-wedding fesitivities. The giant tumor crunching away her insides and causing so much agony was as hidden as her bravery.
I knew she would die even before I knew she had cancer. While honeymooning in Maine, I heard a song that I’ve always associated with death. As my husband and I dug into our prime rib and chattered about whale watching, instinct warned me that hundreds of miles away my mother’s soul was preparing her - and me - for flight.

I didn’t tell my friend that Sunday morning that there are many things I can now live without. For I know about loss of control, that helpless, frustrating pain of watching someone you love dearly slip through your fingers like delicate grains of sand. I know about how deep a mother’s love runs, an endless pure stream of water that never stops flowing. My mother’s love for me gave her strength to hide her pain so that I would be blissfully unware of her impending death as I exchanged vows with my husband.

Letting go gave me a grace to accept my own powerlessness and an odd sense of power within that loss of control. When you lose what means most to you in life, and find yourself still standing on two feet, walking and talking, you realize your soul will survive. There is strength that comes from loss, from letting go of things you once held so tightly clenched in your fists.

I discovered this as I sat besides my mother one week before Christmas, only eight weeks after she had walked down the aisle with such dignity. She lay in a semi-coma, her breathing strained despite the oxygen canula forcing her to live. I stroked her claw-like hand and pressed my lips to the shriveled flesh. That hand had diapered and bathed me, wiped away tears when my first marriage failed and proudly arranged my headpiece for my second wedding. As I looked at the skeletal body that had labored to give me life, I whispered to her, “It’s okay Mom. I can let you go now. I don’t want you to suffer anymore. Go back to God. Grandma and Pops are waiting for you.”

Then I gave her frail body a final hug and let her go gentle into that good night. For love is the greatest force of all and when you give it the freedom it desperately needs to soar higher and higher until it flies directly into the waiting arms of a loving Creator, it never truly leaves you. The spirit of my mother lives on. I know this to be true. My mother is besides me every step I take and on those days of darkness when it seems like the clouds will never lift, I hear her laugh - gentle and cheerful as wind chimes in a summer breeze. I smile, because I know I can go on.

This is the true secret to the things you think you can never live without. Life’s most important gifts, such as the neverending love of a mother, are with us but for a few precious heartbeats of time. When we are forced to let them go, they return back to us in the grace and strength to carry on.

As long as we carry their love in our hearts, we can and will survive.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Welcome to Haiti, now go home

Yesterday we arrived in Haiti. Disembarked the airplane, walked on the tarmac as the little trio of musicians played welcoming Haitian music, flanked by two grim-faced sentries. The airport was calm and clean, organized.

Got outside, the typical crowd was there. Taxi drivers accosted us in their usual friendly manner. "Hey, you need ride?" UN vehicles, their glass windows shrouded in wire mesh screens to protect them from flying rocks, lined the street. Then we saw C & P in the Montero, coming to pick us up. We climbed in and they said, "Welcome to Haiti! Now go home."

P drove 50 yards to the departure area. They were putting us on the next flight out.

It was too dangerous to stay and they didn't want us to get stuck there. Rumors and facts peppered the air like bullets. Fact: UN troops exchanged gunfire with armed gunmen yesterday in Cite Soleil in a door-to-door search for weapons. Gunfire was exchanged. The gunmen spread the violence out of the slum to downtown PAP. Four
people were killed, many more wounded by stray bullets. Rumor or fact: A huge demonstration (including lots of burning tires, gunfire, etc.) is planned for Friday in the area where we were scheduled to work. Rumor: The US embassy is closing?

Fact: It's too dangerous, too hot, too violent right now, we can't protect you. Go home.

I hurriedly gave C & P their Christmas gifts, and romance novels for them to give my friend. C told me she was driving to the grocery right after we left to stockpile on food. She sounded like a soldier mobilizing for a siege. I felt horrible watching them drive off. I was leaving friends behind in a war zone.

The violence isn't confined to the hellish life in the slums, like Dante's inferno containing the damned. It oozes out onto the streets, escaping into the mountains where the wealthy live, into the hotels where the foreigners stay, spilling out onto the streets. There was shooting in a section of Delmas we always drive through. How many times have I passed that area, idly looking out the window at the paintings hanging on the chain link fence, the broken glass sprinkled atop the high concrete walls protecting the homes there?

Putting it into perspective, imagine if it happened in the USA. Total anarchy but for a few thousand UN troops trying to control a few million people. Where do you go? The wealthy enclaves that were always safe? No longer. Take Petionville, Haiti. If Petionville had a sister city, it would be Boca Raton. Home to the rich and the richer. P said yesterday they found a severed hand in Petitionville. Wealthy merchants are kidnapped in their own offices. UN tanks roll through Petionville, shouldering aside the Mercedes and the BMW's.

Imagine Boca with its parade of very wealthy people, little sidewalk cafes where one can sip exotic teas and fragrant coffees, and an armored UN tank grumbling its way through Mizner Park. Imagine living in Boca, walking your Bichon Frisé with its jeweled collar on the scrubbed sidewalks, and seeing a severed hand in the gutter.

That is Haiti today.

What will it take for Haiti to turn from a state of anarchy into one where we can go about freely into the slums and do our jobs? I don't know. Maybe Sister Mary Bazooka is the answer. But the armed rebels have 50 caliber machine guns capable of blowing holes in overhead aircraft. So what do we give our fearless, feisty Irish nun who just wants to help the poor? Maybe an armored tank. I can see her now, rolling through the muddy streets, tossing out bags of rice to the hungry, her rosary dangling from the gun turret as she steers through the slum, warbling "Danny Boy."

An armored tank won't help her cross Rt. 9 in Cite Soleil, where gangs battle each other. There's a ditch across the roadway leading to one section, where armed gang members stand guard. Upon their leader's orders, a makeshift wood bridge is brought across, allowing a vehicle's entry. You have to call the leader by cell phone and get permission. There are many such checkpoints throughout the city controlled by armed rebels.

News reports say a bright, talented grad student at Notre Dame didn't get permission. Jean Joseph Dorvil is presumed dead after being shot Saturday when he failed to stop at one of these notorious checkpoints. He was administering a program to research and eradicate lymphatic filariasis, a disease that causes elephantiasis. Like many diseases of the past, LF is more common in Haiti than the U.S.

Jean Joseph was only 29. There are countless others who are nameless in the media, children, women, teenagers, men, all mourned only by their families. There is no functioning hospital in Cite Soleil. No aid agencies working. Only bullets and barricades. And still, the poverty goes on. The hunger continues. Imagine walking through the slum, trying to find food for your kids, dodging bullets and then one hits. Your life ends on a blood-soaked mattress in a cramped, airless hovel, your only crime being you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And you were born a poor Haitian.

I can't imagine what it must be like for my friends in Haiti, living in constant fear. Always wondering if your drive through the city will turn into a minefield, with gunmen firing randomly, rocks being thrown or the famous Haitian roadblocks of burning tires. I can't imagine being C, running to the grocery store for food because she worries she'll be barricaded inside her home.

I remember what this hurricane season was like, four hurricanes marching in a conga line to Florida. Being so weary and fraught with tension from living in a state of constant uncertainty. Stockpiling water, food, batteries. And not knowing if my house, my neighborhood, my work place, will survive or the landscape of everything familiar to me will drastically change or be destroyed.

I remember the tension, the awful stress that gripped me, and the relief as hurricane season finally ended.

In Haiti, the hurricane season is not ending. Not when there are UN armored tanks patrolling the streets of wealthy neighborhoods. Not when armed gunmen rampage through downtown. Not when we arrive in the city to do our work, and are forced to turn around for our own safety.

In Haiti, hurricane season will be with them for a long, long time.

http://www.bonnievanak.com
mailto:bonnie@bonnievanak.com

Velcro heroes

I'm determined to finish 25 pages by year's end, reaching my goal on Rashid's story. I need to do it for me. I feel like a wounded runner hobbling along to finish a race. No rewards, no recognition, nothing but a quiet feeling of satisfaction. Rashid's story deserves to be told. There's something about his character that grips me. He's Velcro. He will not, as much as I plead him to, let go. He grabs onto me with his sticky Velcro fingers and pleads, "Please, please, write my story."

Yesterday morning I employed an old, but true tactic for me. I came up with an idea and jotted it down. Just kept writing and writing. Did four pages in about 20 minutes. Not too bad. The scene? At the book's end. Wrote out of sequence. But I didn't want to lose the idea, so I wrote. It's not the best way to write. I'd love to be a writer who can write in sequence, but it doesn't always work that way.

So soon it's good-bye US, hello Haiti. I keep thinking of that old Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times." Hopefully this week won't prove too interesting.

http://www.bonnievanak.com

Haiti back on

Guess I'd better learn to run very fast...

Leaving Tuesday. Maybe between all the Christmas stuff this weekend I'll practice dodging bullets. Hey, maybe I can mimic that scene in "Dodgeball" where Rip Torn tosses wrenches at the team. He says, "If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball."

Rip Torn, where are you when I need you? "If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a bullet." Sigh...

How fast can you dodge a bullet?

Not going to Haiti next week. Why? More violence, bloodshed, death and gunshots. Had to change our plans, but flights directly to where we are headed aren’t available. We are scheduled to go early January instead.

Plus we were advised, “Hey, if something happens while you’re there, you can always run.”

Translation: You can always outrun a bullet.

What am I, Superman? No it’s SUPERMISSIONARY! Faster than a speeding bullet. More powerful than an angry mob. Able to leap tall shacks in a single bound. Look, jumping up in the air! It’s a bird! It’s a plane. NO, it’s SUPERMISSIONARY!

Yes, it’s SUPERMISSIONARY, strange visitor from the United States, who came to Haiti with powers and abilities beyond that of mortal aid workers. SUPERMISSIONARY! Who can change the course of absolutely nothing, write notes with her bare hands! And who, disguised as Bonnie Vanak, mild-mannered and confused writer for a major international charity, fights the neverending battle against tyranny, injustice and the ever present dysentery!

Whoa boy…

Polishing the mailbox

Some very good news…woman who was kidnapped is free! Bad news is the ransom amount required. Very scary.

Ok, so I’m driving back to work after a frantic lunch hour of trying to accomplish a few measly things on my list and what do I see? My neighborhood, which is very pretty and polished and already boasts many decorated houses… and a neighbor is outside…

POLISHING the mailbox!

I nearly drove off the road.

Can you imagine what the inside of her house looks like? This woman probably scrubs her toaster until it gleams. My toaster, forget it. It looks like a survivor of 10 garage sales. My house resembles something a hurricane swept through. I STILL have the Emergency Carton of NECESSARY papers in a waterproof plastic bin sitting in the living room. My superstitious Irish soul refused to put it away until hurricane season ended. Ok, well, hurricane season officially did end last month, but hey you never know.

My list of Things to Do before I leave for Haiti in 9 short days is growing exponentially. Christmas cards to send out…and suddenly I realize people moved. I have to update my address list. Add that to the list. Shopping? Ha ha! Put up decorations. Hmmm, let’s see. Make separate list for that. If we managed to do it this weekend…

1) Go to garage and shuffle through maze of stuff to get to ladder
2) Get rickety wood ladder, position beneath attic crawl space
3) Watch DH climb ladder
4) Release small scream as he announces “Hey there’s a dead rat up here.”
5) Shoot him Very Annoyed Look as he looks down and says, “Just kidding.”
6) Think about tickling back of DH’s knee in revenge. Change mind when I realize I’ll have to take him to the hospital when he falls and breaks leg.
7) Start grabbing the myriad of boxes we stuffed up there only in February when we had enough energy to put away Christmas decorations
8) Assemble boxes in a semi-hazardous stack. Start to comb through them.
9) Realize I can’t put on the Christmas tablecloth on the dining room table because the trains he is fixing clutters that table
10) Realize I can’t put up the Christmas tree because the living room needs to be cleaned
11) Realize half the outside lights have dead bulbs
12) Mail arrives. Rush to mailbox and see Christmas card arrived from relatives haven’t heard from. Sit down and read through cards.
13) Get back to trying to decorate. First must stop Tiger from sniffing contents of boxes and Tia from chewing on faded Santa she thinks is her toy.
14) Realize half the Nativity set is gone. Must be in box still in attic. I’m missing Jesus
15) Hunt through the rest of the boxes for Jesus. Mary and Joseph also MIA. May have run off with the three Wise Men.
16) Abandon search for Jesus, decide to put poinsettias in vases and realize I need to find space to store flowers that were in vases.
17) Jesus is in the box with the melted Santa candle. Sound like a revival meeting as I scream out loud, “I found Jesus!”
18) Look at clock and realize I still have 10 billion Christmas cards to mail out.
19) Sit down to try to write ONE Christmas card
20) DH announces he’s hungry and it’s time to grab dinner
21) After dinner, look at pile of cartons, think of how tired I am, and decide our Christmas decorations this year will consist of baby Jesus and a lone red poinsettia stuck into a jelly jar on the kitchen counter, the only space I have managed to clear of clutter.
22) Think about going outside to polish mailbox. Inside of house is a wreck, but hey, at least my mailbox will look clean.

Me, the Wal-Mart greeter?

There is hope on the horizon for writing Rashid's story. Finally took a hard look at it and realized what was wrong. Switched some scenes, added some tension and voila! Also changed the breakfast scene with Jillian and her father. Showed his cruelty very overtly. The first three chapters stand crisp and sorta polished. End with a high tension hook. Need to add more emotional internal conflict. Rashid doesn't think he deserves love. He's afraid to love after all he's suffered. He's a haunted, tormented man.

Posted a love scene from COBRA on my web site today. It's the part where Kenneth feeds Badra a date and then ties her up naked between two pillars and starts kissing her. He does this because her greatest fear is being tied up and being helpless. So he replaces the memory of pain with intense pleasure.

My greatest fear? Lately it's finances. I looked at my retirement plan and cringed, realizing I'll probably be working in a full time job until I'm 90 years old. Of course at age 90 I won't have any teeth, let alone the physical energy to do the travel for the day job I do now, climb mountains, take long hikes in steamy tropical climates, stand in funky floodwaters when our vehicle gets trapped. A plan must be shaped for the future. I don't believe I have a real "career" in romance writing. I'm not good enough. Maybe that's the old neurosis talking. Or maybe not.

So I think I'll aspire to be the octogenarian Wal-Mart greeter while leaning on my walker. But I want to be a feisty octogenarian. Maybe I'll pinch young, studly men's butts as they pass, grinning madly at them as they whip around in startled confusion. Then I chortle, "Boxers or briefs? I think boxers. Men's wear on your right." Then laugh in silent amusement as they scurry away like frightened baby rabbits. Hmmm. Definitely something to look forward to in my golden years.

http://www.bonnievanak.com