How to have a Frantic Vacation (part 2)

Sunday: I was determined to make this vacation a relaxing one, so I dawdled during the morning. The best thing about the Hotel Monaco? It's located next to "La Madeleine," a little French cafe/bakery that serves bits of heaven on a plate. Breakfast there was bliss!

Then it was off to the Wyndham to get their sales presentation. Apparently the Wyndham people don't know where they work, because their directions were awful. It took me asking twice at the Wyndham resort to get to the proper area. If you started out in the pits of their parking basement, the route was well-marked. The trick was in getting that far.

Well, the joint was packed, and lots of people had brought their hordes of young kids. The adults were ushered into a room where a salesman who obviously had had Southern Minister training provoked the crowd into a froth. His boss was gone today, he told us, and this was his final working day this week, so the 2-hour presentation would be condensed into 20 minutes, and didn't we appreciate that? This way he could hit the road when we were done.

Ho boy, and this is just the beginning, I told myself. After 20 minutes, halleluiah, we were ushered out to speak one-to-one with salespeople. Mr. Southern Minister had to stick around because they had an entire new group coming in. (I mentioned the 20-minute special days later, and the Wyndham rep then nodded as if this were SOP, which I had suspected at the time. Never believe a salesperson in these circumstances.) My Personal Saleslady kept coughing as she sat beside me. "Just an allergy, sorry," she said.

Liar! Liar, LIAR, LIAR!

Anyway, she and her supervisor (always a bad thing when sales people double-team you) told me how Club Wyndham works: You pay X-many dollars and get Y-many points. You then use the catalogs to find where in the world you want to vacation (and Wyndham has sharing plans with other chains throughout the world), and use your points to have a great time.

I quickly got them to show me the lowest tier on their plan. I would get 74,000 (why not 75,000?) points, which Mr. Supervisor told me that, depending on where I wanted to go, I would get 7-10 vacation day stays per year.

The cost was about that of a used Honda Civic, financed over 10 years. I had to tell the guy to shut up a minute, while I figured costs per year (my math brain center had completely turned off—not a good thing during a sales presentation) and how that compared with my usual vacation spending habits.

In the end I decided that it seemed a good deal. Okay, I'd give it a try. Good grief—I was buying in essence, a vacation home! As Ms. JustAnAllergy sneezed on me, I signed a small mountain of papers, everyone shook germ-filled hands, and I staggered out... Four hours after I'd gone in.

I'd planned on leaving for DC immediately (especially since Wyndham was right across the street from the Metro), but now had to lug the huge attache of paperwork and catalogs back to the hotel room. After that, it'd be too late to go anywhere. Oh well, I'd just walk around King Street instead.

Went to Lancini Brothers for dinner and wound up with a show as well. My first mistake came when I didn't stop the waiter when he was reciting specials. Instead I got which ones sounded interesting mixed up, and when I said, "tell me about the crabs again," I should have said, "tell me about the clams again." So I didn't get to sample stuffed zucchini blossoms, which I've never had.

I sat in the middle of three tables, all of which had one diner. The woman to my right had come in with me, so we were ordering at the same time. The bar was in front of us, filled with older, paunchy people, mostly guys, watching the baseball game. Then a balding guy with carefully-groomed five o'clock shadow and a linen suit that at one time long ago had been wrinkle-free, walks up to the bar to stand and wait. On his arm is a tall, lanky woman with long blonde hair (except for the top, which was dark). I can only see her back, and it looks like she's wearing a black, shapeless vest with glass beads sewn around the arm holes. Below the vest: lace panties.

Okay, they were beige shorts, but they were layered in strip upon strip of wide lace, and the shorts were VERY short, so at first and even fifth glance it seemed like they were panties. Below that, she wore day-glo orange, 4"-heel sandals.

I REALLY wanted to take a picture of this chick. Suddenly a flash went off. The guy to my left had done just that. The chick didn't turn to look; obviously she was out to get all the attention she could. Later, the woman to my right exited the same time I did. She confided that she'd taken a picture as well, of "the pertinent part." She also offered her opinion that the chick in question was a Lady of the Evening. I agreed that she certainly was portraying herself as one.

Lancini's chicken dish was fine, but the triple chocolate mousse for dessert (white, milk & dark) was FABULOUS, and the three raspberries that came as garnish were exquisite.

Tomorrow's agenda: Into Washington at last! About time.

Monday: ARGGGHH, my feet, my feet!

That tree down there is just... wrong.

I took a taxi to the Metro, which cost $6 (it's $3 just to sit in a taxi), but the driver said he could drive me to the Smithsonian for around $21. I begged off, wanting to become familiar with the Metro. But the DC Metro is confusing. You have to figure where you're going that day, compute the distance, then compute how much $$ to put on your Metro card to pay for that distance. Why not just issue a Metro Day Pass?

It was drizzling as I got out at the National Mall, just below the Smithsonian castle. Figured I'd best lumber to the Lincoln Memorial et al before the rain really got going. I'd forgotten that the earthquake a year and a half (or so) ago had damaged the Washington Memorial, so it's closed for repairs. It's a bit of a walk down there from the Smithsonian, but once you're there, if you squint into the faaaar distance, you can see the Lincoln Memorial.

School buses alternated with tour buses in the parking lots. Lots of 'em. Lots and lots of 'em. A mass of grade schoolers were dipping their arms into the Reflecting Pool, and I felt sorry for their teacher. After a while they started shrieking, "Baby ducks!" Sure enough, there were two family groups out there, one with tee-tiny ducklings who had just the mother, and another with both sets of parents who kept taking off and coming back to their entourage of much-larger kids.

A child screamed, "Look at the whore! Look at the whore!" I had to turn to see this. Sure enough, a rider on a horse was trotting up the landscape.

I decided to Plan Ahead and save my feet by avoiding going into the Lincoln Memorial. To the side was the Vietnam Memorial, where signs are posted for quiet and to be respectful. Everyone observed this except for three teenaged girls who giggled and gossiped until they finally realized they were the only ones making noise.

One woman knelt and was doing a rubbing of one of the names. Very moving. One passing idiot turned to his buddy and asked what the heck she was doing.


The WWII memorial was surprisingly amazing. I thought the plan to interrupt the Mall layout was stupid, but once you're there, it's darned magnificent.

I missed the Vietnam Women's memorial. My map said it was right there, but I didn't find it, even when I doubled back.

Someone in the crowd was stinky. I sniffed closer. It might be me. Either my deodorant had worn off early (it's a new brand for me) or the changed morning routine had forgotten it. I reeked. Sorry, DC.

By now it was sunny, so I set off vaguely in the direction of the Smithsonian with an eye out for a public restroom. Targeted the one on the map and wound up on the Ellipse in front of the White House. There at the side was the restroom facilities, and a sorrier restroom would be difficult to find. You had to descend into a dank dungeon, and the floors were wet and almost nothing worked. This is a major tourist spot; things should be immaculate!

I was disappointed that I couldn't see the snipers on the roof.

According to my lying map, I was on course for the National Portrait Gallery. I walked. And walked. And walked. Turns out it's literally just above the Chinatown Metro stop. By now my dogs were barking, so I took in only the essentials.

I noticed that there are a lot of skinny people in DC. Must be all the walking.

I only concentrated on the portraits at the Portrait Gallery, which sounds stupid but the gallery is allied with another one that I can't recall right now. And I only did the first floor. Or the second. Whichever one it was I entered on.

I think portraits and I think paintings, but they had lots of photos and some statues. The best statue I saw was a bust of George Washington Carver, who was portrayed as one heckuva hunkasaurus. Woof! Imposing and sexy as all heck. They had a "feminists" corner with Elizabeth Cady Stanton et al, and a few portraits of some famous Native Americans. I wish someone had done Sacajawea's portrait.

Anyway, I felt guilty for taking the gallery at a run, even at hobble pace. It's a place that deserves a much lengthier perusal.

Now I needed to hit Union Station. I've been there before, but now it was an important scene in a book I'm writing, and I wanted to make sure I'd gotten it right. I hadn't; changes will be made. I then took the Metro back to the Smithsonian. Whew.

Sat a long time on the Mall working up the energy I imagined the Smithsonian Castle would take. Saw a small army of Segue beginners receiving final instructions before starting out on their tour. A cop on horseback watched them, which I thought was some kind of technological irony.

Finally went into the Smithsonian, where the creme de la creme of all the museums are displayed. What? They aren't? The Smithsonian castle is merely an information kiosk these days? Everything is kept in separate museums?

What's the point?

Arf! Arf! my feet howled. I went out back and sat for a while in the garden. I could hit the Hirshhorn at least, right? Wrong, my feet replied. I tried a few steps in the Hirshhorn's direction just to spite them, but they turned me around and headed toward the Metro. Traitors.

Sitting in my Metro seat, I thought the back of my throat felt a little scratchy. The vibration of the car was making me feel a little peculiar. How odd.

On the way out of the Metro, you have to insert your ticket into the box and if you haven't paid enough, you have to go back and pay until it will let you out. My ticket went in and popped out as usual, I stepped through—and the gate wouldn't let me. I checked the message window. It didn't say anything about "Pay up, deadbeat." I tried again. And again. Finally half the gate let me through. I flagged down the station person and asked her what the heck was going on. She shrugged. "You got out; no big deal." Well all right then.

Technology.

Throughout the day people had been extremely friendly and helpful in directing me through the various puzzles of Washington, and I had seen that others had also been helped. Thank you, all!

Tomorrow's agenda: a cruise to Mt. Vernon!

How to have a Frantic Vacation (part 1)

Friday afternoon: I turned my timesheet in to my supervisor. "What, you're not planning on being here Monday?" he asked.

"I'm on vacation next week." To Washington and Williamsburg.

"You are?" He'd forgotten that we'd discussed this quite thoroughly, etc etc. It's not easy to realize that you're so low on the totem pole at work, is it? Well, what can you do.

I left work, went shopping. Bought an entire underwear wardrobe. I'd been putting off buying new clothes, thinking, "I'll be a size smaller soon," at which point it would be time to gloriously go off in search of new clothes. But now it had reached the point of either wearing stuff that was practically in threads, or going commando. So shopping it was.

Along the way I stopped at Radio Shack. I hadn't been able to find the proper camera battery at Walmart. (The teenaged clerk looked at me blankly and asked, "a battery for a camera?" Well, excuuuse me.) After much searching, the RS clerk found the right battery. I asked him for two and explained that not only was I about to embark on vacation, but that my camera had a tendency to eat batteries. I wondered why he hesitated, but he sold the batteries to me.

He didn't bother to point out that these were rechargables. (Which are a good thing, if one has purchased the proper recharger, which I hadn't.) Or that these had not been charged yet.

On the way home, a semi tried to run me off the road. As I came upon it from behind, my guides warned me about the Impending Doom. "Pshaw," I told them, but sped up to pass him, just in case. And sure enough, about the time I got halfway up the side of the truck, he starts easing into my lane.

My car doesn't go "HONK!" It doesn't even go "MEEP!" It goes "meeeeh" with a sigh, which apparently finally caught the driver's attention. Either that, or it was me veering onto the rumble strip at the side of the road, which makes an awful racket. RAWR RAWR RAWR! The truck veered back into his proper lane.

That was getting the bad luck for the vacay out of the way ahead of time! Well worth it.

Saturday: I-85 through Virginia was a pretty drive, if kind of monotonous. Lovely woods overhung the road, with extremely rare breaks to show a lake or field. I came upon Mt. Vernon without any warning. Wait—that wasn't Mt. Vernon. That was the Virginia Welcome Center. They were ALL like this, apparently, with the usual bathrooms and vending machines, but with huge libraries of tourist booklets, and a large staff who guided you through the mysteries that are Virginia.

A few miles above Richmond was where the traffic jam for Washington began. Fifty miles of 30 mph bumper-to-bumper traffic in a 65 zone...Saturday at mid-day, in the middle of nowhere. As we approached the DC area, we did run into a couple of short tracks where traffic sped up to 65, but by now the speed limit was 55.

With the Mapquest printout in one hand, I searched for the signage I needed. Overpasses piled upon overpasses upon overpasses. At one point I was on the second overpass up, and at least 200 feet above me was another overpass. Why did it have to be that high? Were they leaving room for two more levels?

In the distance I saw concrete curlicues in the sky, some kind of large waterpark slide ahead? Close-up, these turned out to be exit ramps from those heavenly overpasses. Gaah—Glad I didn't have to drive that!

Mapquest turned out to be mostly right, and delivered me to the Hotel Monaco in Alexandria in late afternoon. A couple turns around the block revealed no parking spaces (besides, they were all parallel parking. Gahh!), but I'd been told to include valet parking in my reservation, so valet it was. ($25/day!) The Monaco is low-okay on my scale of hotels. Serviceable, but there was zero information. How was the hotel laid out? What did it offer? What was in the area? The hotel had no concierge, though the check-in clerks said they could give me all the info I wanted. They printed out a list of the names of local restaurants and their phones, with no other info, like maybe, what those restaurants specialized in, where they were located, etc.

My room had no coffee maker, no hair dryer, no grab bars or safety flooring on the shower.

But it was a great location, right in the lower heart of King Street, which seems to be the main tourist drag in Alexandria. There's a free trolley that runs the length of the street, from docks to Metro—but it starts at 11:30 am, which means that if your day begins before that, you're SOL.

The Visitors' Bureau is two blocks away, manned by helpful employees with handfuls of brochures. King's Street is filled with restaurants, cafes, ice cream parlors, clothing stores, and tourist shops. Lots of people walk their dogs there, and the various shops have water bowls set out for their convenience.

I went down to the docks and decided to go ahead to get tickets to the Mt. Vernon cruise, even though it wasn't until Tuesday (cue ominous music). Storms seemed to be coming quickly; wet weather was predicted for most of the week. Thus I made a quick retreat to have dinner at "The Wharf" restaurant—overpriced, but everything on King's Street is. A talented trombonist had been playing on the sidewalk outside my window before I'd gone out exploring, and he was still at it when I returned. No one paid attention to him. I walked a half-block away before I got the guilts and turned around. A lady in front of me plunked some money in his cup just ahead of me. Then back at the room I heard a clamor from outside. A large group of high school-age kids had gathered around the trombonist and, one by one, they contributed tips to his cup.

Tomorrow's agenda: I would have to listen to a 2-hour "buy a vacation condo" presentation (the reason for the trip), after which I'd spend the rest of the day in DC, vacationing. Oh, the best-laid plans...

Pleinly Speaking

Today was the annual Raleigh Plein Air Paint-Out, sponsored by Local Color Gallery and Jerry's Artarama. According to the Call for Artists, Jerry's was going to open an hour early today and hand out free canvases. I needed supplies, and so stopped by there on Wednesday night after my Hair Club appointment—too late. Oh well, I can go there early today, right? We just need to check into the event by 10 AM.

So I called Jerry's Thursday to confirm that they were open early. "No, ma'am," they assured me, and even asked other workers. Nope.

Wokay. Thus I embarked on a panicked search of studio, storage room, and any kind of art storage I could find in the house—and there are quite a few of those places. (Someday I'll get the house remodeled to accommodate my needs. Or I'll move.) Ta dah! Found some blank canvases. One was linen, not quite the thing for plein air, but at least it was larger than the other quite small canvases. And smaller than the other quite large canvases. When you're outside painting your brains out, you want a medium-sized canvas and you don't need expensive linen, which allows for fine detail.

Lo and behold, there was a frame of the same size, still in its plastic wrap. (Okay, not quite the same size. When I slipped the finished canvas in, the frame was the tiniest bit too large, or perhaps the canvas was the tiniest bit too small [Jerry's canvases seem to run small], but I got it wedged in enough that I don't think it's going anywhere.)

It's been about a year since I last did plein air. In fact, it was during the theater release of The Avengers, because I celebrated completing a plein air workshop by seeing it. I'd planned on really getting out last year and keeping up the habit, but I didn't. Now with this contest I am making a pledge to get out more. Practice makes perfect, and I hope that travel during my retirement will be partially financed by being able to paint as I go.

Last night I gathered equipment. Acrylic or oil? I decided on oils, which allow you to moosh around a bit with things instead of having a mistake dry before you can fix it. I use alkyd oils, which dry thoroughly in 24 hours. (Okay, if you really layer it thickly, it takes longer.) I cannibalized the Gamsol in my studio container because I didn't have any more. (see: "Jerry's was closed," above) The rest I began to reach for and throw into the pile. About 9 PM I loaded it all in the car and hit the sack. After I put my bedtime book down and turned off the light, I had to switch it on again so I could run around and collect four more things I'd forgotten.

Hopefully in the future I'll pay more attention to my lists and go by them.

So: up this morning an hour after I usually rise, and it was off to Raleigh! There was an actual parking space across from the gallery!!!! Signed in, made use of their Facilities, and drove off to find a suitable subject within the area we were confined to. I'd previously thought I'd paint the forested grounds of a school, but that was just off St. Mary's and not Boylan Ave., which was our limit. On the hunt again, I spotted a delicious stone church and parsonage. I parked on the street (the parking lot across the street from the church had 24/7 towing signage, and I watch a lot of Parking Wars) and set up.

The real parsonage, with proper shadows.

I'd determined that this year, by gosh and by golly, I was going to enjoy the painting instead of being in a deep, dark hysteria over getting things Just Right and Done On Time. I'd prepared by looking over some plein air magazines that reiterated the importance of value, value, value. And temperature. And edges. And...

No pressure. I didn't even make as detailed (hah!) a preliminary drawing as I usually do, trying to figure out things. At least I remembered to take a picture of the scene when I started. I figure that when I get my painting back I can compare and repaint, if needed. (I'm still working on the one from last year.) (It's going to be good, dammit.)

The church was doing a booming business for a Saturday, and I got an occasional stray from whatever they were doing over there. Someone mentioned that music lessons were available in what was the ex-parsonage. These were mostly kids accompanied by their mothers, and two mothers brought their sons by to inspect my work. The boys were both interested in art, so I showed them what I was doing and tried to explain what "value" was to the younger guy, and encourage the older one, who looked about high school age, to join us next year. "Imagine, you meeting a real artist!" the mother of the young one gushed.

Gee!

A car rolled up into the tow parking lot I had set up in, to join the other car that was there. A man got out of car and strolled over. "Whatcha doing?" he asked.

I explained, and he said he wasn't the owner of the building, but it was okay for me to be set up there. I assured him that absolutely no mess would remain. Later, an artist and her hubby parked in the lot and came over to ask about towing. I explained that they should consider being cautious, so they moved to the side of the street a couple cars behind mine. We all made Parking Wars jokes.

Well, the sun climbed in the sky and all those dramatic shadows against the stonework drifted to the ground. I kept having to shift shop to my right, to my right, and to my right again so the canvas and me were in shadow. (How I WISH I could find a good plein air umbrella that actually attaches to something and stays in place!) By the first move I had the basics of the painting on canvas, so I was just checking for color and such, and could bear having my viewpoint changed.

It's not a bad little painting. I kept telling myself to simplify, and I did. Very proud! I left the leaves on the big tree until the last—they were in front of the rest of the composition—and then dabbed them in.

Ugh! OMG! How do I redo this? I cursed and cursed, then closed my eyes and took a breath. Do not panic.

Opened my eyes again. Oh gee, it looks like Cézanne on a messy day.

Yeah, Cézanne. My leaves look like Cézanne's, if you haven't seen a Cézanne painting in a while. I painted some more, liking the effect more as I went. I even went back and put in some blocky tree limbs because, hey, this was a real painted painting, not something produced in Photoshop, and it should look like a human hand was behind it.

Not bad.

Got the frame on and the car loaded up and decided that I needed to get in some exercise for the day. I'd walk the painting up to the gallery; it was just a couple blocks. Whoops—It was a lot farther than that, and uphill. In addition I had to pass blocks and blocks of restaurants and cafes serving lunch and exuding tasty smells. I almost swooned from pleasure in front of the Thai place. Can't have soy or peanuts for another couple weeks, darn it!

Handed the painting in, called it "The Parsonage," and tried to take a picture for my files, just in case it actually sells during the month it'll be on display at Local Color. My cheap purse camera gave me a "disc full" message, and I couldn't get to anything to delete a picture. Not even one. #@!! Sure, I could have walked back to the car and gotten my fancy camera out of the equipment bag, but then I'd have to walk all the way back, since there were now zero empty parking spots on Glenwood.

So I don't have a picture to show you. When I get the painting back, I'll try to remember to post it here.

All the walking made my left knee hurt. It hasn't bothered me in AGES. It's not bothering me now, but began bothering me for a bit just before I got back to the car. Uh oh. I have a vacation planned for Washington, DC, Colonial Williamsburg, and Historic Jamestowne next month. Looks like I'll have to get deadly serious about getting in condition for it.

Fly Me to the Moon...

Today I figured what the hey, there are bored people out there on the Interwebs. Let's give 'em something to read! So I present to you an excerpt from my sci fi novel, Applesauce and Moonbeams. (Btw: Jonathan's the little guy on the cover.) Hope you enjoy!

* * *

            How odd. Pippin had expected to wake up brimming with unbounded zest, free from the crushing gravity that had been Earth for the past six weeks. She should be home: back on Luna.
            This trip had left the rest of her life hanging and her nerves shattered. They had already been stretched thin as a plastic sheet. After the past six weeks that plastic had been pulled and distorted, finally snapping in shreds by a lack of time and more gravity than a human body was ever meant to bear.
            What she needed was a long, relaxing vacation. What she faced was the most important deadline of her life.
            Now at last she could pick up where she’d left and get on with everything. She’d have to do so at a dead run; her schedule was squeezed unbearably tight. Instead, she found she literally couldn’t move. Was some fear of failure immobilizing her? Or worse: artist’s block?
            I should have refused to go to Earth, she reminded herself as she put up faint struggle to open her eyes. She thought she’d left Earth behind four years ago. But poor Jonathan. He couldn’t have lasted much longer without Terran help. And of course, poor old Aunt Evie anxiously waited for him at home.
            Evie certainly couldn’t have survived the trip, so Pippin had put her dream on hold for six weeks. Forty-two irreplaceable days. She’d accompanied Jonathan throughout his ordeal, and had now brought him back home. She hoped he appreciated her sacrifice. She knew Aunt Evie didn’t.
            Her time was her own again, but time now ran oddly. It was dark. Oh yeah, she had her eyes closed, but there didn’t seem to be any light on the other side of her lids. Open, open, open, her mind commanded, but her mistreated body groaned, Five more minutes.
             She still felt heavy, though maybe half or a third as bad as the horror Mama Terra had been. Not only heavy but a tad claustrophobic. She squeegeed the sleep-slime in her mouth with her teeth, trying to taste what the problem was as her senses slowly awoke. Ew, got some hair in her mouth. She spat it out.
            It was really quiet in here. Funny odor; guess that was the plastic sleep suit they made her wear, with its plumbing and sensors and everything. It really smelled icky. More than ripe; kind of rotten, like when they brought in a big batch of manure from the Luna C waste facility to receive its final rounds of sterilization. That couldn’t be her, could it? Ew, ew. Never!
            She must be still in the sleep pod. Cocooned to withstand the hard acceleration that powered the Express, it fed her enough drugs to keep her unaware of the day-and-a-half ride. The faint sounds she made as she squirmed echoed back to her, reminding her of how tiny it was.
            People weren’t supposed to wake up in their pods, were they? Had something catastrophic happened? She started throwing off the drug effects at that thought. Was there something wrong with the ship, that the sleepers had been awakened prematurely so they could deal manually with the emergency—or at least say their final prayers?
            Meteoroid collision? Crew decompression? Was no one left at the controls?
            Maybe some glitch had cut off her nutrients or, God help her, her air, and some keen animal instinct had snapped herself alert so she could jump up and—
            Not bloody likely, with this weight pinning her down.
            Funny, it didn’t extend to her arms or hands. Her left foot also seemed to be free of it. Still, it was... well, something. An object of some kind, a smushing load, a—
            “Wooo-AAAAHHH!” she shrieked. “Dead body! Dead body!”
            She scrabbled her free fingers, searching for some kind of help button to alert the staff. There must be a help button. And a staff that was awake. Please, God, a— “HAAAAAALLP!” She ended it in a pure, unadulterated screech guaranteed to penetrate six inches of solid steel if need be.
            Suddenly it occurred to her that her screams might use up all available oxygen.
            Oxygen or zombie initiation? “YAAAAAAAAHHHHHH! EEEEEEEEE!”
            Excited voices penetrated from the other side of the pod. She shrieked as loudly as she could: “Dead! BODIEEE! Lemme out! Lemme OUUUUT!!!”
            For the first time in her life, Pippin Applegate fainted.

Nothin' says lovin' like a heart attack in a pan

I've done a few newsletters in my life, and some have required the use of "filler" material, which was readily available even in those rubber cement days. We got scads of little pasteup-ready magazines that were nothing but filler articles to be used in newsletters, etc.

I've kept this clipping through the years for its sheer awfulness. For some reason I recall this as being from the Red Cross or similar kind of health-centric organization. I say this because I recall being shocked by the ironic juxtaposition of the provider and the killer recipe. Text credits this to a WGN radio listener in Chicago, later "reviewed and adapted" by Twinkie bakers.

And don't worry that Twinkies are no longer being made. There are lots of lookalikes on the grocery shelves. Serve this to your Sugar Daddy... AFTER you make sure you're in the will!

Twinkies Toffee Temptation

1 package (3 3/4 oz) vanilla instant pudding
2 cups milk
1 multi-pak (10) Hostess Twinkies cakes
1 package (8 oz) chocolate-covered toffee candy bars (they're trying not to specify Heath bars), crushed
1 container (4 oz.) non-dairy whipped topping (Cool Whip!)

Prepare pudding with milk as directed on package. Set aside. Slice Twinkies in half lengthwise. Line a 13x9x2-inch casserole dish with bottom halves of Twinkies, creamed filling side up. Sprinkle on 1/2 cup crushed candy. Pour on pudding. Arrange top halves of Twinkies on pudding. Spread on whipped topping. Top with remaining candy. Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours. Makes 10-12 servings.

Dashing through the Nasher

I've lived here how long? And haven't been to the Nasher Museum at Dook? My bad.

Yesterday UNC-EX (explorer) aired one of their splendid programs on art exhibits touring in the area. Turns out highlights of the collection of the Cone Sisters of Baltimore (and Cone Mills of NC) is showing at the museum. What the heck—it's a 3-day weekend and the extra time should be spent on something special, right?

I checked directions on Mapquest and saw the location of the parking lot in relation to the museum. Then I set out. Success! Found it on the first try! (What is this "GPS" you speak of, Kimosabe?) Unfortunately the lot was full. I also didn't see any signage about parking fees, which the museum site had mentioned. Must not be up to date, whew.

So I circled. Signs had said that more parking was available at the Sarah P. Dook Gardens, about three long blocks away. Whoops. I drove past them and figured out which road I should take to get there. Then I overshot the entrance. Instead of looking for it, I was fascinated by the HORDES of people strolling in the museum's general direction from the Gardens. Sheesh. The museum had only opened about twenty minutes before.

So I circled back to the Gardens, but did so via the museum's parking lot. Ack! People were getting in a car! I backed up, waited, and felt quite superior in getting the spot.

On the way in, I looked for "Pay for Parking" kiosks, just in case. Didn't see anything. Thus it was up a BUNCH of stairs and into the museum, where the line was not long at all.

It was kind of peculiar, though. I could hear people at the beginning of the line exclaim, "What?!" One would get to the cashier. "What?!" The next person would step up. "What?!" And so on.

I got to the ticket lady. "Why's everyone so upset?" I asked.

"It's the parking," she explained. "It's just $2."

"What?! I didn't see any parking signs!"

"Oh, they're kind of lax in handing out tickets on Sunday. If you're worried, put this sticker on your shirt and you can get in again without breaking line."

Like heck I was going to go down all those steps again and search for a parking kiosk. There were NO signs for parking fees. (I looked on the way out!)

Instead I spent the time at the Nasher frantic that my car was being ticketed. It seems like a really interesting museum—I accidentally walked into their regular display, and it looks fascinating (even though the lead picture is a portrait of a guy wearing a Superman tee shirt. I'm sorry, but is there something non-artistic about a WONDER WOMAN tee?), but skipped it because I WAS VERY LIKELY BEING TICKETED!!!

Turned around and there was the entrance to the "Collecting Matisse and Modern Masters" (Cone Sisters) exhibit. Now, I'm not a fan of Matisse. Oh, about 10% of his stuff I can say is interesting, maybe even nice, but the rest leaves me cold. It looks unorganized and slap-dash. (The lady next to me in line said the same thing, so I'm not weird). What I was hoping for was a sudden enlightenment like when I'd gone to Montreal's big art museum. The exhibit there had been impressionist landscapes or somesuch. I'd come around a corner, turned, and there was a landscape by Cézanne.

You must realize that the only time I'd previously encountered Cézanne (must have slept during that particular class) was my college Art History textbook. There was a 1x2" black and white Cézanne landscape in it that I looked at and asked, "What's all the fuss about? If I had a three-year-old, she could ..." Well, you get the gist.

But I turned and there, at eye level and one foot away from me in full color, was a landscape that was literally breath-taking. And it was Cézanne. Since then I've come to find more of his landscapes and seen the mystery and delight in them. And his still lifes are just... Well, they're just! Woof.

So I was hoping I would gain some appreciation for Matisse.

I did not.

For me he follows Sturgeon's Law: 90% of everything is crap. But the 10% is very nice indeed.

And there were other painters represented with single paintings (or multiple, in Picasso's case. For me, Picasso is more 50/50 than 10/90). I saw one painting from afar, said, "Ah ha! My Matisse breakthrough! He's doing something different here." Got closer. "It must be an early work, because he's trying to mimic VanGogh." Closer. "He's doing an excellent job. What a great painting!"

Of course it was VanGogh for real. Gorgeous. Glorious. Amazing. Siiiigh.

There was also a Gauguin that knocked my socks off, as well as Courbet and another guy whose name I can't remember. And oh yeah, Picasso had a good one in the show, along with a bunch of other stuff of his.

And there was an interactive video of the Cone Sisters' apartments, showing room after room CRAMMED with artwork! "Just look at all that lovely wall display area!" I was so jealous!

The show book was $35. Pass. Though I'd love to have those color plates of VanGogh, Courbet, Picasso, and WhatshisfacebeginswithanR.

But I had to hurry out of the show, past the mammoth line that was snaking through the lobby. ("What?!" "What?!") After all, THEY WERE GOING TO GIVE ME A PARKING TICKET!!! I raced down the stairs, hoping to avoid the Dook Cops.

At the bottom of all the stairs, behind the ticket information info, stood a bulky something, wrapped in a brown trash bag. If you peered hard, you could see the word "PARKING" inside there. A small sign had been taped to the bag: "Paid parking is not in effect today."

RRRR!! I could have taken my time, maybe even enjoyed the show instead of worrying. Perhaps I could have explored the rest of the museum, bought the show book since I didn't have to pay any fines.

As I approached my car, keys in hand, I noticed an SUV that had been slowly cruising come to a halt. The driver and passengers were throwing their hands up in the air, giving shouts of joy. I nodded to them, got in, and departed so they could take my space.

Stoopid Dook Nasher. Still, I'll have to check them out later, if only to see if there's a Wonder Woman tee shirt somewhere in there.

Strickly a Book Review

Dragon Bound (A Novel of the Elder Races)
by Thea Harrison
Berkley Sensation
4 spangles out of five
Contemporary fantasy, though some blurbs call it urban fantasy.

This book won the 2012 RITA (Romance Writers of America's highest award) for Best Paranormal Romance. I can see where it would get high scores. The writing is often lush, the action scenes jumping with swash. Its voice is light since its heroine is not very serious. Well, some of the time she isn't.

The cast is filled with brooding alpha males who are also shape-changers—Wyr—in that they can change into a dragon, griffin, bunny rabbit, what have you. Everyone has their own specialty and will likely get their own volume in the series. These people have lived openly (well, they're known) alongside mere humans for a few centuries now. There's even been some interbreeding, which is how we wind up with Our Heroine, Pia, who is half-human and half-Wyr, though she doesn't know what kind of Wyr she is. (Thanks to a conveniently close-mouthed mother who is now conveniently dead. Or dead-ish.)

I'm not a huge fan of these kind of shape-changers, be they werewolves or gargoyles. I rather suspect that if I'd grown up with the cartoon Gargoyles, I might be. Shape-changing gives a hero an excuse to be all growly and fiercely protective of his mate in an un-PC way, so it allows the romance genre the chance to have a 100%, unrepentant alpha male as a hero.

The book gives us a good bit of world-building for the magical elements and sort of how the Wyr & co. came to be (Our Hero's origin is very nicely presented, to the point where at times though he was portrayed as being the Biggest, Baddest Guy Around I wondered why he wasn't, well, MORE. He should be a god.), but never explains to my satisfaction how everything fits into modern society to the point where there's a readily-recognizable modern human society still extant. I'd have thought such would have skewed things radically and the two societies would be hopelessly intertwined. The Wyr still have their secrets but Our Hero Dragos, emperor of the Wyr (as opposed to the Dark Elves, the other Elves, and I forget what other enclaves), keeps his huge fortress smack in the middle of New York City with little to no effect on the human community that surrounds him. (Until he roars one day and causes all kinds of havoc.)

Our Heroine, Pia, is a frightened mouse of a (half-Wyr) woman... unless she's a spunky daredevil... unless she's a passive possession of a dragon... unless she's the most skilled and deadly woman on the planet. I wanted a character whom I would recognize throughout the book, even as she grew into her character arc. Instead I got up and down moods and abilities that let the plot determine them, instead of the other way around. She didn't grow as much as fell into her fate.

I was surprised how much the beginning of the book really grabbed me and kept me reading. I wasn't expecting such a friendly author's voice, reflecting the young, modern heroine. (An excerpt of the next novel shows the same voice at work there.) Eagerly each night I returned to it—until the Saggy Middle came into view. There we had multiple info dumps (okay, it's the first volume of a series and things need to be established, but don't we have time to dump info more subtly?), description of how ritzy and über-cool everything was, and the heroine truly went into schizo mode, embroidered with the old "this heroine is the most beautiful, daintiest, most deadly, most desirable, most remarkable person on the planet and oh, how all the men now lust after her though she never had that problem before" meme.

Most horribly of all, I could see echoes of two of my own books in all the Mary Sue-ishness. Ack! Death to Mary Sue. Kill! Kill! Luckily, one of those books is still in wip form and can be corrected toot sweet! (I do hope I toned down the other one before publication.)

There was also a recurring prose problem: I often had to reread to figure out who was doing what to whom. Antecedents and references were iffy in all too many places. Where was the editor?

But to me the book also brought out why I often dislike romances: The romance is all they've got to offer the reader. Even then, it usually goes only skin-deep. Here our hero loves our heroine because she's a change of pace, but also because there's just something about her (what?) that calls to him, and she's great in bed. Our heroine loves our hero because he's gorgeous, fabulously rich and powerful, because there's just something about him (what?) that calls to her, and he's great in bed.

But shouldn't romance go deeper than that? Shouldn't the couple share a way of looking at the world? Attitudes? Customs? A love of scrapbooking? Something that will keep them together for all eternity after the looks and sexual prowess fade or grow too familiar?

Oh, I'm not just talking this book now. I'm talking about one hell of a lot of romances, which is why instead I write books "with Strong Romantic Elements" (that's an official sub-genre, though the RWA has now turned up its official legal nose at it), and sometimes they aren't even that strong. Okay, my historical (Burgundy and Lies) was the exception, but even then the couple shared something deeper than just lust for looks.

And yet I love an inordinate number of Regency romances. There you often find just the romance, and usually a desperate one at that (women had to get married for security since they had practically zero legal status), but it's all liberally peppered with a struggle against society's rules, and the approach between the couple in question is often humorous, with clever, entertaining dialogue. Even so, when I read a Regency in which something ELSE is at stake—like perhaps the heroine is secretly a writer of a gossip column in order to earn money to keep herself and her orphaned brothers alive—a thrill runs through me and I settle back expecting a story I'll remember long afterward.

But this review is about this particular book, not romances in general. Definitely give it a try, if you're into romance and dragons in a modern setting. Much of it will capture your attention, though I don't think you'll find the rather cliché characters memorable after you close the book. They're fun for what they are. Enjoy the action and don't think too hard about logical explanations. Dragon Bound would make a very pleasurable vacation read.