Why Do Fools Fall in Love?

Since the dawn of time, and even before that, we’ve been asking ourselves the same old question. Is it worse to be widowed or divorced?

Let’s look at divorcées first, and of course a lot depends on the circumstances. For those enduring divorce, it matters what side of the divorce fence you find yourself sitting on. If the divorce was your idea and you just feel compelled to leave your lazy, good-for-nothing spouse who won’t take you hunting/shopping, then the age-old question doesn’t even apply to you. Especially if you happen to have a third party waiting in the wings who totally “gets” you because you have so much in common, like NFL football/Downton Abbey.

But what if the divorce wasn’t your idea? What if you foolishly thought you’d be married to this person forever? The person who’s now hastily packing bags, saying good-bye to the dog, and canceling life insurance policies? The one who can’t back out of the driveway fast enough? In this case, you might prefer being widowed. Yes, lying, cheating spouses who fall off cliffs or accidentally pour drain cleaner over their cereal can’t hurt. Well . . . it can. But it will hurt the deceased a lot more than you.

Now, our hearts go out to those who lose a much-loved partner to death. Such a loss is painful and unbearably sad, and no matter how many times people tell you they understand, they just don’t. But the widowed will have a circle of folks rallying around them insisting they must grieve in their own time, absolutely no rush, and life will eventually get better. The divorced people who’ve been wronged will probably get the same advice, but for a much shorter time period, and it will be peppered with instructions to get over it, move on, get out there.

Whichever heart-wrenching situation you find yourself burdened with, it will be life-altering, and recovery can be agonizingly slow. The widowed and those divorced against their every wish and effort will both feel pain and loneliness. But the good news is that life will eventually return to some kind of normalcy for the suddenly single, no matter how they got there.

Perhaps the difference is that the widowed can look back on a lifetime of good memories and remember the husband or wife with love. The divorced, after cutting the spouse’s clothes into tiny pieces and removing his/her face from five thousand photographs, can hopefully come to the conclusion one day that too much time was wasted missing the departed one.

And as for the spouse speeding out of the driveway, let’s hope that at the very least, he/she gets a ticket for bad behavior.

In our latest novel, DRESSING MYSELF, our heroine faces much of the above, but the conclusion of her story might surprise you.

Two New Books and One New Dog

It is our pleasure to start the new year by introducing our readers to Jessie Harleman. Her story is now available on a Kindle near you in Dressing Myself (our first novel NOT in The Val & Kit Mystery Series).

Jessie has been happily married to Kevin for twenty-eight years. With their two grown kids now out of the house and living their own lives, Jessie and Kevin have reached the point they thought they longed for, yet slightly dreaded. But the house that used to be bursting at the seams now has too many empty rooms.

Still, Jessie is a glass half-full kind of woman, eager for this next period of her life to take hold. The problem is, it just doesn’t go the way she planned.

Meanwhile, our two supersleuths, Val and Kit, remain in dogged pursuit of a murderer in their latest escapade, Lethal Property, to be released this spring. This No. 4 in The Val & Kit Mystery Series showcases their old cohorts along with the usual sprinkling of new characters, including a special four-legged friend who's a big Downton Abbey fan.

Speaking of friends with four legs, we have a new guy in our gang. Please meet Brew, the sweetest boxer we know. He was “rescued” by our editor Sarah and her husband and is now a permanent fixture in their home. Although he looks kinda tough in this picture, he’s really a pussycat . . . well, maybe not a pussycat; he’d box us just for saying that.

When Roz was a child, she was very afraid of dogs, but for no particular reason. Her family never owned a dog, and she never had an encounter that justified her fear. But she can remember visiting another family that did own one and literally climbing on the kitchen table to escape (Roz doing the climbing, not the dog).

Now she wonders why. The first dog she owned was a Labrador puppy (Oliver). A tiny bundle of black velvet with a face that could melt the hardest heart. Even so, her husband had to assure her there was nothing to fear before she reluctantly agreed to take the pooch on. Within a few weeks he was sleeping in their bed, and she was rushing home from work every day, wracked with guilt that she’d had to leave him alone for several hours. The only solution was to add another Lab to their family. This time they went blond (Duncan).

Today she’s rather suspicious of people who don’t like dogs. What’s not to like?  As an adult she’s owned four dogs at one time or another (including Jessie, below) and has had a couple more for sleepovers when their owners were out of town.

For her part, Patty grew up having dogs, as did her children. Now she and her husband have three granddogs, all Labs: one black, one yellow, and one chocolate (Harry, Hank, and Chester, top to bottom below). Like all their grandchildren of the two-legged variety, each has a distinct personality and a unique set of traits and, um, talents. Grandma and Grandpa know immediately which one stole the Christmas dessert off the table, which one pooped on the floor, and which one will run and hide in the chicken coop when the Fourth of July fireworks begin.

       

But all the dogs in Roz and Patty’s lives have been sweet, loving, and loyal to a fault. Most of them have had a great sense of humor, and one was a little snooty; but without exception, they've all been good people.

Roz’s Flippant Memories of Christmas Past

I flip the page on my 365 Nouns and Adjectives Calendar to reveal November 30, 2012. Sure, we’re heading into December; it’s literally around the corner, or in this case, on the next flip. But hey, plenty of time to do all the stuff that needs to be done before December 25. I’m still enjoying the Thanksgiving afterglow, and then I flip.

December 1: The word is Preparation. It’s cute. And I’ve got twenty-four days to prepare. I’m so on top of things, this is gonna be a breeze.

December 5: Word is Breeze. Order three gifts online. Two show up (never do receive the third one and spend the first four months of 2013 straightening out my credit card). Feeling generous, I put a five-dollar bill into the bucket attended by a bell-ringing Santa outside Walmart when I stop by to get my tires checked.

December 12: Word is Organization. This might be useful for someone less organized than me, but I am completely on track. Unfortunately, the two online gifts that made it to my door must be returned. Wrong size and color. Why did I ever think Kimberly would look good in chartreuse, especially trimmed in tiny black cats? She’s twenty-eight, for crying out loud, not eighty-eight. But no problem. Hideous top can be returned, and I’ll do all my shopping the old-fashioned way—in real stores. It’ll be fun.

December 14: Word is Yuletide. Now that’s more like it—we’re getting festive. Two tiny hitches, though: I’m reminded of the Secret Santa gift I must purchase for my unsuspecting coworker, and the secret stocking-stuffer items that must fill my designated stocking at the home of the friends I’ll be staying with. The idea is to cram as much into the stocking as possible, with no item costing more than five bucks. I was assigned Nickie, who doesn’t even wake up, much less get out of bed, for a five-dollar so-called gift. Still feeling generous, I put two bucks into Santa’s bucket on my trip to the store to buy air freshener.

December 17: Word is Festive. (I thought we’d already covered this.) So now it’s time to get serious. So far, of the twenty or so gifts I have to buy, I’ve managed only two. And both of them are for me.

December 20: Word is Relaxation. Are you kidding me? Who relaxes five days before Christmas? I begin planning a trip to the mall, something I promised myself back in July I would never do again. But I have no choice. On the way in, I put a buck fifty into Santa’s bucket, although Santa himself is not actually there and has been replaced by a teenager wearing a Texans T-shirt.

December 21: Word is Enjoyment. Obviously, the sadist who penned the calendar has never spent a whole day at the mall wandering aimlessly and chanting what shall I buy? As I leave, I see Santa is back, and I’d like to assure him I donated yesterday, but his look implies I’m going to the top of the naughty list. So I cough up all the loose change at the bottom of my purse (seventy-three cents).

December 23: Word is Furtive. I look it up and am delighted to discover it actually applies to me. During day two spent at the mall I appear to be avoiding notice or attention from any of the salespeople. But I’m determined not to leave without a gift for everyone on my list. Mission vaguely accomplished. I do, however, have to wait until a large family exits the mall, so I can go unseen in the middle of their throng. Big-time furtive. Because I have no cash left, I can’t risk being spotted by Santa.

December 24: Word is Tidings. Word should be Phew. I just made it. All price tags are removed; gifts wrapped tastefully; and ten miles of curling ribbon disposed of. Before I go to bed, I send e-cards to everyone I intended to snail-mail actual real-life Christmas cards to.

December 25:  Forget to look at the word.

December 26:  Word is Gratitude. And I have it.

Fictional Women Do Eat Quiche (If We Say So)

Kit James is a gourmet cook. Valerie Pankowski, not so much. She favors cereal for dinner, while Kit can rustle up a perfect frittata, even in a stranger’s kitchen with half the ingredients missing. We know all this because we made them do it.

Back in 2011, when Val and Kit were first introduced in The Disappearance of Mavis Woodstock, they were new to us. We four were still getting to know each other. We were creating two women, telling their story, making it up as we went along. By June 2012, when the girls appeared in The Murder of Susan Reed, we had become old friends, and we knew what we were dealing with, even though they gradually took on a life of their own. Obviously, we knew what Val and Kit were thinking and what they would say before they said it. And with the help of Word, and our two heads in the background writing and proofing, we continue to pull the strings on their lives, making sure they don’t repeat themselves, their hair color stays constant, and they arrive at a destination in the same outfit they put on that morning.

Getting to know Val and Kit has brought us such joy and so many laughs. They’re both fiftysomething and are shameless Starbucks-aholics. When serious thinking or recapping events is required, they’re often found at their favorite coffee shop downing lattes. Val is your everyday, salt-of-the-earth working gal. Money is often as tight as the clothes she’s trying to fit into. She lives in a tiny apartment, which she loves, even though it’s been compared at least once to a rabbit hutch.

  

Kit, on the other hand (like Val before her divorce), has no occupation and lives in a large, stylish house. Her long-suffering husband, Larry, has tried numerous times to curtail the outlandish schemes of his wife, but so far his attempts have been unsuccessful. She has a wardrobe of designer outfits, all ridiculously overpriced (in Val’s opinion), and they fit her slim frame perfectly. On any occasion, she turns up in the perfect ensemble, while Val spends a good deal of time digging through her closet, trying to come up with something that doesn’t need repairing and won’t bring on one of her dreaded hot attacks. While Kit seems to never be less than perfectly made-up, Val’s attempts at cosmetic enhancement generally fade an hour after being slapped on.

In Death in Door County, the girls embark on a trip to Wisconsin to visit Val’s mother, Jean, never a big fan of Kitty Kat. She blames Kit for every indiscretion her daughter has ever committed, and she’s probably correct. Kit is the alpha pal of the two; Val follows in her wake, often kicking and screaming.  

Creating our two protagonists has been pure delight. They have become real people to us, and judging by many of the kind reviews we’ve received, we think they are real to some of our readers too. In our daily, nonfictionalized, very real lives, we often find ourselves saying oh, that is totally something Kit would do or that’s exactly what Val would say.

Kit is courageous, blunt, and loyal to her pal. Val is kinder, softer, but also faithful. What binds the two is their love for each other. True friendship is a rare blessing; and we should know.

Trick or Traitor

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Of course. You look hideous.” The teenage Kit handed me a wart she had fashioned out of Play-Doh. “Here—take this and put it on the end of your nose.”

I stuck the protuberance on the perfect spot as she came up behind me, spinning me around so I could get a good look in the full-length mirror attached to the back of my bedroom door. We’d spent the last half hour turning my face green and fixing the long, gray, ratty wig she’d gotten from somewhere-or-other.

“Ghastly,” Kit said.

“Scary,” I agreed, hardly recognizing myself. “But . . . maybe we should have gone for something a little less obvious . . . like Laverne or Shirley.”

“Pedestrian,” Kit said. It was her new favorite word. “Everyone will be Laverne and Shirley. We’ll be the only two witches.” She plunked the conical black silk hat on my head. “Perfect.”

“You should go and get dressed.” I turned away from my grisly image. “But I don’t know why you couldn’t get dressed here.”

“I told you. I have to pick up some candy for my mom, but I’ll run home, get my costume, and be back in twenty minutes. Twenty-five, tops.”

Kit gathered her belongings and ran out of the room. “Thirty minutes, Valley Girl,” I heard her yell as she ran down the stairs. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

“Okay,” I called, shutting the door and staring at my reflection. I had to admit, it was almost magnificent in a frightening way. Taking a sip from my lukewarm Tab, I put my new Hall & Oates LP on the turntable of my record player. Rich Girl filled the room, and I couldn’t resist grabbing the broom and dancing around my bedroom.

“Aargh!” It was my mother, standing in the doorway, shrieking. “Valerie, what are you doing? Turn that music down, for heaven’s sake. Do you want Daddy and me to be completely deaf? And what are you wearing?”

“Well, take a guess, Mom. What does it look like to you?” I had stopped twirling and was leaning on my broom handle. Witch-style.

“It’s not attractive, Valerie. And I can guess whose idea this was. Why couldn’t you be Dorothy from the The Wizard of Oz? Now, that’s a costume.”

“It’s pedestrian, Mom. That means—”

“Lacking in excitement. I know what it means.”

“This is fun.” I caught a glimpse in the mirror of my green face and protruding nose. “I like it.”

“Well, Buddy is downstairs, with Tom Haskins. Come and say hello.”

“Oh.” I hesitated, not comfortable about my brother and his friend seeing my witchy persona. “Tell Buddy I’ll see him tomorrow.”

“He won’t be here tomorrow. He and Tom are driving to Kings Island tonight.”

“Well, I . . . I’m not sure if . . .”  Suddenly I felt so juvenile. What would Buddy and his sophisticated friend Tom think of me? Why had I agreed to this horrible costume? And where was Kit, when I really needed her? She could make a witch fun, no matter how hideous. But my mother had come fully into the room, and with her arm around my waist, was pushing me toward the door.

“Here she is,” she yelled from the top of the stairs. “Here’s our little witch.”

At the bottom stood Buddy, my nineteen-year-old brother. Beside him was Tom Haskins, looking groovy in his rugby shirt and bell-bottoms.

“Hey, Sis,” Buddy yelled up at me. “You look cool.” Dear Buddy; he was better than a dozen Kits at making me feel good. I stood up a little straighter, leaving my mother’s grip.

“Hello, my little pretties,” I said, in as croaky a voice as I could manage, twisting my finger in their direction. Then I resumed my normal voice. “Hello, Tom.”

He gave me a crooked smile and dug his hands into his pockets. No comment.

The boys left, and Kit phoned to say she was running late (no big surprise there), but she’d meet me at the party. And yes, she was dressed. No problem.

My mother gave me a ride, four blocks away, insisting I not wear my hat in the car in case we were stopped by the police. Kit was already there, wearing a long, blond, layered wig; hot pants; and white knee-length boots. Farrah Fawcett. Damn her. Farrah Fawcett. The most glamorous woman on the planet.

“What the hell happened?” I asked, as soon as I’d made my way through the crowd to her side. My wart had dropped off my nose during the car ride over, and my green face was starting to itch.

“Sorry, Valley Girl,” Kit whispered, still managing a smile that Farrah herself would have envied. “But I heard Larry James is gonna be here tonight, and I wanted to be sure he noticed me.”

“Really?” I said, scratching under my chin and then leaning on my broomstick. “’Cuz I passed about six Farrahs on the way in here. Do you really think he’ll notice you?”

“Hell yes,” she said, breathlessly. “He’ll notice me. If it’s the last thing he ever does.”

Years later, on a different Halloween night, when Tom Haskins and I were having a drink after work wearing normal street clothes, he reminded me of Halloween 1976.

“By the way, how did you like my costume that night?” I asked him.

“What costume?” he asked. As I knew he would. He never disappoints me.

Who Ya Gonna Call?

Let’s say you find yourself slapdab in the middle of a murder/thriller/mystery. You need a piece of vital information to save yourself, the country, the planet. And let’s say your informant is an evil, reprehensible character known to travel with two Dobermans, Adolph and Ava, trained to rip out throats. Our dastardly informant agrees to meet you in a vacant warehouse at midnight, down by the docks. Oh, and you should come alone.

However, since you are the author of this plan to save the world, you don’t have to play by your informant’s rules. So the question is, who are you going to take with you?

Who’s the toughest, bravest, cleverest person you know?  Who’s handy with a weapon if needed? Who can outsmart our dangerous mole? And more importantly, who can follow the GPS instructions to actually find the docks—in the dark?

Well, since this is all make-believe, sort of, we can take anyone we like. Gibbs from NCIS springs to mind. He fits all the requirements, although he’s a little too quick to slap a person on the back of the head when he’s displeased. Monk is certainly smart enough, but we’re worried he’d be hampered by doggy doo-doo bags if Adolph and Ava get busy. The X-Men, who we understand are a team of mutant superheroes, probably would be a safe bet. And of course, any of the James Bonds would be okay, although we’d prefer Sean Connery because he’s always so tidy, even after a rumble.

But we’re going to settle on our friend Sarah. She’s more a super-grandma than a superhero. But she’s brave. She’s killed cockroaches the size of a polar bear, and she once wrestled a deranged cat (albeit wearing a beekeeper’s outfit at the time). She’s more than handy with a gun. At the shooting range, two government-type guys with gold badges on their belts said, “Nice shooting, ma’am.”  She’s supersmart; the paper she wrote titled “Rise to Globalism” earned an A (we won’t mention who she wrote it for). And she doesn’t need a dang GPS system; she can find any place, any time, even in the dark. Plus, she’s the biggest dog lover we know, so she’d have Adolph and Ava rolling over to have their bellies scratched in five minutes.

We’d feel safe with her anywhere. Who would you pick, and why?

Seriously. We want to know.

                           Sarah: a match for any Viking!                  

  Sarah with weapon at the ready.

Super Sarah taking aim.

Sarah, Roz and Patty

How to Know Absolutely Everything, and Then Some: Roz’s Other BFF

Today I splurged on a deep-red lipstick. I say splurged because I bought it at one of those stores that sells only cosmetics and related items instead of the grocery store, where I usually toss makeup into my cart along with bagels and toilet-bowl cleaner. My boyfriend was with me, complaining because they didn’t sell fishing gear or weaponry.

As soon as I got home, I typed the brand Urban Decay and the color F-Bomb into Google and was immediately treated to a video of a pretty, young woman telling me exactly how to apply it. You might think a person would already know how to apply lipstick; it’s fairly self-explanatory. But no, she had a few tricks up her sleeve and even set the timer on her iPhone, promising to return several hours later and let us know how it performed. I’m pleased to report that the F-Bomb is a winner.

I’m not sure who I’m happiest with, Urban Decay or Google. Okay, it’s Google. Earlier this week I severely burned my thumb when removing a cup of queso from my microwave. After thirty minutes of sitting on the couch trying to keep my thumb submerged in a cup of ice water (and guarding said water from cocker spaniel Bailey, who was apparently suddenly very thirsty), I googled burns and discovered that if you don’t have aloe vera on hand (I don’t), then you can coat the affected area with white toothpaste, and presto, the pain will stop instantly. It did. But note, this works only with white toothpaste, not blue, green or gel.

Bailey, yet another friend of Roz’s, first introduced in our blog about Skype

So, in my daily life, Google has become an unpaid consultant living in my home. I seek advice daily on everything from how many children the Duchess of Devonshire had in the late 1700s to when it’s time to change the oil in my car (even though the car itself will let me know, I still need a second opinion from Google).

As a writer, I find Google indispensable. There’s a little stuff I think I know, and then a whole lot of stuff I don’t. In our latest book in The Val & Kit Mystery Series (still in the works and as yet untitled), the ladies are treated to Greek coffee made in a briki, a word that was on the tip of our tongues until Google defined it. In DEATH IN DOOR COUNTY, a character from Croatia emerges, and Google took us on a tour of that country, clearing up any misconceptions about Croatian culture.

How does one make a perfect martini? What are the ingredients for shrimp étoufée? And furthermore, how do you even spell étoufée?  I’m no cook, but since Kit James (one of our protagonists) is somewhat of a gourmet, I’m learning through Google on her behalf. Of course, the pitfall of my googly pal is spending too many hours looking up something that leads to something else. For example: is George Clooney really single again can take you to the Darfur conflict, which in turn can lead you to Africa in general and blood diamonds. And before you know it, you are cruising the Tiffany website.

Then, just when I think I might know all there is to know about everything, Mother Nature kicks in and deletes a good portion of this minutiae from my memory, freeing up a lot of space. But I won’t be undone, and I’m off now to Google Mother Nature herself.

Just who is she?